I 


ON  THE  CAMPUS 

MACfeRIDE 


ON  THE  CAMPUS 


ON  THE  CAMPUS 


ADDRESSES  DELIVERED  AT  VARIOUS  TIMES 
BEFORE  UNIVERSITY  AND  COL- 
LEGE AUDIENCES 


BY 

THOMAS  H.  lytACBRIDE 

PRESIDENT  STATE  UNIVERSITY  OF  IOWA 


THE  TORCH  PRESS 

CEDAR  RAPIDS,  IOWA 

1916 


COPYRIGHT  1916  BY 
THOMAS  H.  MACBRIDE 


THE  TORCH    PRESS 

CEDAR     RAPIDS 
IOWA 


CONTENTS 

THINGS  WORTH  WHILE  IN  EDUCATION        .        *          11 

Address  before  the  literary  societies  of  Lenox  Col- 
lege at  Commencement,  June,  1908 

CULTURE  AND  THE  STATE      ...»        .        .        .          34 
Address  at  the  fifty-ninth  Commencement  of  Mon- 
mouth  College,  June  8,  1915 

THE  TEACHER  AND  THE  STATE     .        .        .        *          60 
Address  before  the  graduating  class  of  the  Iowa 
State  Teachers '  College,  June  9,  1914 

THE  SUCCESS  OP  THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOLS        .  •     .;•          81 
Address  before  the  Northeastern  Iowa  Teachers' 
Association,  Clinton,  April  2,  1915 

CULTURE  AND  WOMEN'S  CLUBS  ....          95 
Address  before  the  State  Federation  of  Women's 
Clubs  of  Minnesota,  February  12,  1916 

THE  GIFTS  OF  SCIENCE 120 

Address  delivered  on  the  dedication  of  Science  Hall, 
University  of  South  Dakota,  June  16,  1902 

THE  RESPONSE  OF  PLANTS 136 

Address  before  the  Baconian  Club  of  the  State  Uni- 
versity of  Iowa,  December,  1903 

THE  ALAMOGORDO  DESERT:     THE  PLANT'S  RE- 
SPONSE TO  CHANGES  TERRESTRIAL    .        .        .        156 
Presidential  address  before  Section   G,   American 
Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science,  Phila- 
delphia, December  28,  1904 


8  Contents 


THE  PLANT'S  RESPONSE  TO  HUMAN  AGENCY        .        173 
Address  before  the  Baconian   Club  of  the   State 
University  of  Iowa,  December,  1904 

POINT  LOBOS  :  THE  PLANT  rs  RESPONSE  TO  FORCES 

COSMIC 194 

Address  before  the  Baconian  Club  of   the   State 
University  of  Iowa,  December,  1902 

THE  BOTANY  OP  SHAKESPEARE     .        .        .        .        209 
Address  before  the  Contemporary  Club  of  Daven- 
port, Iowa,  1899 

THE  FOLK-LORE  OF  PLANTS        .        .        .        .        234 

Address  before  the  Iowa  Branch  of  the  American 
Folk-lore  Society,  November  26,  1909 

SIGMA  Xi  I  .        .        .        .        .        ...        250 

President's  address  before  the  Iowa  Chapter  and 
the  Initiates,  the  Class  of  1902 

SIGMA  Xi  II        .        .        .        ...       .        «.       .        258 

Charge  to  Initiates,  before  the  Iowa  Chapter  and 
the  Class  of  1914 


THINGS  WOETH  WHILE  IN  EDUCATION 

It  is  needless  for  me  to  tell  you  that  for  the  student 
there  is  about  these  early  days  of  summer  a  charm  that 
comes  not  of  air  or  earth  or  sky.  True,  all  these  as  they 
appear  in  June  are  proverbial.  ''What  so  rare  as  a  day 
in  June."  The  earth  is  fecund,  the  air  translucent,  the 
sky  pure  with  the  freshness  of  Nature's  morning;  all 
things  animate  and  inanimate  rejoice.  But  the  student 
sees  all  this  richness  in  a  different  way.  June  may  be 
fair  to  everyone  else,  but  for  the  student  it  is  fairer  still. 
For  him  was  this  particular  season  made ;  all  its  splendors 
are  but  the  gorgeous  setting  of  his  stage.  Has  he  not 
waited  its  coming  all  the  year  ?  For  him  the  seasons  are 
but  a  journey,  a  travelled  way,  that  leads,  sometimes  in 
light,  sometimes  in  shadow,  always  through  toil  and  ef- 
fort, up  to  June,  to  radiant  June.  This  is  commence- 
ment and  the  world  is  here;  not  light  only,  not  only 
blossoms  and  glad  faces,  and  fine  raiment  and  the  voice 
of  song,  —  but  the  real  world  to  which  all  days  and 
weeks  and  years  are  but  an  anticipation.  Commence- 
ment, like  faith,  is  for  every  happy  student  everywhere, 
' '  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  the  evidence  of  things 
not  seen." 

Now  on  such  a  day  as  this  I  count  myself  happy  to 
come  back  here  to  June  and  youth,  and  for  the  hour  at 
least  to  share  the  enthusiasm  of  those  who  rejoice  to 


"12?  *'  '<"'  On  -the  Campus 

shout  and  sing  and  to  realize  that  for  them  and  theirs 
the  world  begins  to-day.  Pessimistic  indeed  would  he  be 
who  should  in  his  vain  heart  imagine  that  his  world  were 
the  only  world ;  that  the  concerns  of  life  as  these  appear 
to  older  people  are  alone  real  and  substantial,  and  that 
the  gladness  of  youth  and  the  all-importance  of  its  af- 
fairs, shall  not  also  find  appropriate  mention  in  the  epic 
which  depicts  the  life-experience  of  the  race. 

Nevertheless,  I  suppose  all  will  allow  that  one  who 
looks  back  upon  a  scene  like  this  in  his  own  history  may 
see  some  things  unnoted  by  those  who  share  its  gayety, 
or  even  by  those  who,  hasting  forward  along  the  way 
yet  hold  in  expectation,  hold  largely  in  anticipation,  the 
joys  of  a  commencement  day. 

The  mountains  which  divide  the  continent  and  deter- 
mine the  course  of  rivers  and  the  floating  of  rain-clouds, 
are  as  we  pass  them,  full  of  beauty ;  of  leafy  groves  and 
brilliant  flowers  and  the  music  of  flitting  birds;  only 
as  we  recede  do  these  things  all  more  or  less  disappear, 
and  we  see  at  last,  only  those  things  which  are  eternal, 
the  immovable  peaks,  the  impregnable  walls,  the  unfail- 
ing caps  of  snow  that  make  possible  and  perennial  the 
springs  and  streams  and  rivers  and  rains  to  gladden  the 
wide  habitable  world.  And  so  in  the  course  of  life ;  ex- 
perience teaches  us  at  last  those  things  which  are  best; 
and  while  we  may  never  cease  to  find  interest  in  every- 
thing that  can  concern  or  engage  the  attention  of  in- 
telligent people,  nevertheless  it  is  more  easy  for  us  to 
see  that  some  things  are  more  nearly  universal  than  oth- 
ers, and  therefore  more  worthy  of  perpetual  apprecia- 
tion and  esteem. 


Things  Worth  While  13 

Therefore,  I  come  to  you  to-day  with  such  a  theme  as 
that  just  announced;  to  the  undergraduate,  advice; 
merely  a  reminder  to  the  graduate,  and  for  us  older  folk 
a  theme  of  appropriate  reflection.  Besides,  for  some  of 
our  complexity  and  perplexity  as  well,  education  is  her- 
self responsible.  We  have  grown  complex.  To  my 
father,  the  content  of  my  subject  suggested  no  special 
difficulty.  Life's  duties  were  plain.  Life  itself  was 
simple  and  the  preparation  for  it  of  correspondingly 
modest  compass.  In  my  grandfather's  family  the  prob- 
lem was  possibly  more  simple  still.  The  young  people 
were  taught  to  read  and  write ;  to  memorize  hymns  and 
passages  of  scripture,  the  rules  of  good  behavior  and  how 
to  do  things  that  their  fathers  and  mothers  could  do ;  the 
lads  to  swing  an  axe,  to  plow,  to  plant,  to  reap,  to  handle 
tools;  the  girls,  to  sew  and  knit  and  spin  and  weave,  to 
embroider,  to  sing,  to  cook,  to  care  for  the  sick  —  all  alike 
at  length  to  settle  down  quietly  in  homes  of  their  own 
to  live  with  their  children  the  same  quiet,  uneventful 
lives.  This  was  the  ordinary  procedure.  There  was  no 
thought  of  more  general  or  extended  culture,  and  the 
vast  benefits  to  be  derived  from  the  universality  of  learn- 
ing were  as  yet  unheard  of.  Only  if  a  lad  were  destined 
for  the  pulpit,  or  the  bar,  was  a  different  education 
thought  of.  Indications  for  this  destiny  were  discovered 
not  as  a  rule  in  mental  gift  or  intellectual  aptitude,  but 
in  reverse  physical  quality;  a  puny  body,  or  indifferent 
health,  unfitting  a  boy  for  the  rigorous  service  of  a  farm 
or  shop,  were  pretty  sure  to  send  him  a  candidate  for 
medicine  or  the  service  of  the  church. 

The  lad  sent  to  college  experienced,  however,  in  those 


14  On  the  Campus 

days  no  difficulty  in  finding  things  worth  while  in  educa- 
tion. If  he  had  found  any  such  embarrassment,  his  in- 
structors had  quickly  solved  his  problem  for  him.  There 
is  the  course  of  study;  it  is  four  years  long.  It  has  al- 
ways been  the  same ;  it  is  neither  too  long  nor  too  short ; 
as  the  priest  says  about  the  church,  qwod  semper,  quod 
ubique,  qwod  db  ommbus.  This  course  of  study  has 
served  all  the  men  of  the  past  centuries  in  all  the  world ; 
it  will  serve  you.  There  were  no  electives  —  there  was 
nothing  to  make  electives  of,  and  there  had  been  no  choice 
if  there  had  been  electives  offered. 

Now  it  may  be  remarked  at  the  outset  that  it  is  by  no 
means  doubtful  that  these  people,  our  predecessors,  found 
the  things  essential  in  education.  There  is  no  doubt  they 
found  the  results.  They  found  intellectual  and  moral 
life  and  health;  they  found  appreciation  and  happiness 
and  power,  and  in  so  far  were  blessed.  Nevertheless,  it 
is  equally  a  matter  of  no  smallest  doubt  that  within  the 
last  fifty  years  the  whole  fashion  of  the  world  has 
changed.  Up  to  the  middle  of  the  last  century  men  were 
living  in  all  civilized  countries  very  much  as  men  had 
lived  for  two  or  three  thousand  years.  The  plantings 
and  sowings  and  buildings  and  all  domestic  arts  of  the 
Iowa  pioneers  were  not  unlike  those  which  Pliny  de- 
scribes on  the  hills  and  valleys  of  Italy  and  Spain  twenty 
centuries  ago.  In  our  houses  we  had  window-glass,  our 
greatest  invention,  cast-iron  stoves,  and  wooden  floors. 
Beyond  this  I  know  of  nothing  in  which  we  much  excelled 
the  civilizations  of  the  ancient  world.  They  cooked,  they 
spun,  they  wove,  in  linen,  in  wool,  in  silk;  they  manu- 
factured silver  and  gold  and  iron;  they  carved  the 


Things  Worth  While  15 

precious  stones ;  so  that  I  think  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the 
common  life  of  our  fathers  was  not  unlike  that  of  thou- 
sands of  years  gone  by,  if,  indeed,  at  its  best  it  ever  at- 
tained some  of  the  refinements  of  the  fortunate  people 
who  lived  about  the  Mediterranean  Sea, 

Nor  was  the  intellectual  world  of  our  fathers  very 
different.  The  vast  majority  of  educated  folk  were  busy 
thinking  over  the  thoughts  of  the  past,  puzzling  over  the 
problems  raised  by  Socrates  and  Plato  and  Paul;  con- 
cerned with  that  interpretation  of  the  world  handed  to 
our  Teutonic  or  British  ancestors  by  missionaries,  and 
especially  revived  by  the  ferment  of  the  Reformation. 
In  my  own  boyhood  days  we  were  still  discussing  the 
freedom  of  the  will,  the  divine  sanction  of  slavery,  modes 
of  baptism,  and  the  possibility  of  mental  somnolence, 
under  the  query,  "Does  the  mind  sleep?" 

Remember,  I  am  not  criticising  the  employments,  in- 
tellectual or  other,  of  the  generation  past;  not  at  all:  I 
mean  only  to  say  that  we  have  within  fifty  years,  per- 
haps without  knowing  it,  passed  through  a  new  intel- 
lectual renaissance,  perhaps  the  most  notable  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  race,  comparable  only  to  the  revival  at  the 
close  of  the  middle  ages.  We  are  confronted  by  a  dif- 
ferent view  of  the  world ;  we  see  the  whole  world  differ- 
ently ;  man  7s  thought  about  himself  and  the  universe  can 
never  again  be  the  same,  and  new  problems  have  filled 
the  entire  horizon  of  our  philosophy ;  if  not  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  the  old  discussions,  at  least  to  their  profoundest 
modification.  New  thoughts,  new  purposes,  new  plans 
have  taken  possession  of  men's  minds  and  all  old  things 
are  changed,  or  at  least  seem  to  have  passed  away  for- 
ever. 


16  On  the  Campus 

Now  many  of  these  new  concepts,  and  things  which 
occupy  so  much  of  daily  thought,  have  found  place,  nat- 
urally enough,  in  the  curricula  of  our  schools ;  tentatively 
at  first,  then  more  aggressively  until  to-day  the  youth 
who  seeks  an  education  finds  himself  confronted  by  the 
learning  of  the  century  in  every  possible  detail,  until, 
in  fact,  instead  of  a  definite  course  which  he  may  com- 
plete in  four  definite  years,  he  sees  stretching  away, 
course  upon  course  to  the  last  horizon  of  human  research, 
where  no  human  lifetime  since  the  age  of  Methusela 
would  suffice  to  compass  it  all. 

Nor  is  this  all:  the  old  system  of  apprenticeship  hav- 
ing fallen  by  the  way,  our  handicrafts  are  in  confusion. 
There  has  come  about  a  centralization.  Manufacture  of 
every  sort  is  performed  in  great  shops.  The  butcher,  the 
baker,  the  candle-stick-maker  have  lost  each  and  every 
one  his  trade.  Great  plants,  maintained  by  importation 
of  skilled  labor,  have  almost  eliminated  the  old-time 
trades  of  cooper,  wagon-maker,  shoe-maker;  and  the 
American  youth  grows  up,  not  only  ignorant  of,  but  ac- 
tually out  of  touch  with,  all  those  fine  old  arts  which 
ever  heretofore  formed  a  delightful,  healthful,  and  with- 
al honorable  employment  for  hand  and  brain. 

To  meet  the  difficulty  the  schools  are  summoned  to 
teach  the  arts  and  crafts.  In  the  common  school,  pro- 
vision must  be  made  for  quasi-carpentry  under  the  guise 
of  manual  training,  and  even  the  university  applies  its 
science,  has  benches  and  forges.  Even  the  old-fashioned 
arts  of  the  field  are  made  the  subject  of  lessons  and  lec- 
tures, and  our  very  recreations,  games,  and  sports,  play 
their  part  in  the  university  or  college  curriculum  where 


Things  Worth  While  17 

every  conceivable  topic  of  possible  human  interest,  from 
things  Platonic  to  play  as  tonic,  from  Bosporus  to  bos 
taurus,  has  distinctive  recognition  at  the  faculty  board. 
Apollo  and  his  muses  nine  are  daily  jostled,  nay,  are 
hard  pressed,  by  Hercules  with  his  club,  —  his  base-ball 
club! 

In  the  presence  of  such  an  overwhelming  display  of 
pabulum,  intellectual  or  other,  the  American  youth,  nor 
less  his  more  anxious  father,  must  stand  more  or  less 
appalled.  He  is  bidden  to  a  feast  where  the  tables  do 
not  simply  groan  with  their  burden,  they  have  broken 
completely  down.  Everything  is  in  a  heap  on  the  same 
terrestrial  level  and  the  youth  is  bidden  help  himself; 
prescribed  regimen  or  diet  there  is  none. 

Now  again,  I  am  not  criticising  methods,  subjects,  or 
schools.  All  this  has  come  about  naturally:  we  older 
people  have  seen  it  all :  the  confusion  is  a  response  to  the 
transformation  of  the  age.  Educators  would  meet  the 
necessities  of  the  time,  the  needs  of  every  individual,  as 
each  individual  may  feel  his  need;  and  the  gates  of  the 
temple  of  knowledge  are  not  only  open,  they  are  off  their 
hinges,  and  the  priests  of  the  sanctuary  have  all  taken  to 
the  field. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  notwithstanding  the  absolute- 
ly unrestricted  election  now  open  to  all  seekers  after 
truth,  there  are,  as  wise  men  know,  certain  very  definite 
limitations  set  by  the  nature  of  the  case  and  these  may 
perhaps  even  yet  guide  us  to  a  right  appreciation  of 
what  is  worth  while  in  education. 

In  the  first  place,  the  pupil  himself,  the  subject  of  all 
our  care,  prevision,  and  provision,  has  not  changed. 


1 8  On  the  Campus 

Changing  philosophy,  the  discovery  of  electricity  in  its 
manifold  service,  even  the  autocar  with  its  horn,  has  not 
changed  in  one  iota  the  nature  of  the  boy.  His  body  is 
still  made  up  of  the  usual  organs:  he  must  be  warmed 
and  fed :  he  still  seeks  amusement  and  play :  he  is  still  a 
creature  of  passion,  he  loves,  he  hopes,  he  fears:  he  has 
but  five  senses,  gateways  by  which  the  world  may  reach 
him  at  all:  he  has  but  a  few  years  of  happy,  careless 
morning,  then  a  few  more  of  toil  and  burden  and  disap- 
pointment, mingled  sorrow  and  joy;  then  a  few  more 
of  quiescence  and  waiting  and  the  lights  grow  dim,  the 
play  is  out  and  all  the  noisy  confusion  and  eagerness  of 
the  world  shall  disturb  him  no  more  forever.  The  na- 
ture of  man  has  in  no  wise  changed. 

In  the  second  place,  the  problem  varies  not.  There  is 
only  a  little  that  education  however  fortunate,  is  com- 
petent to  do  for  any  man.  No  education  can  engraft 
upon  the  boy  the  wisdom  of  his  father,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  learning  and  wisdom  of  his  age.  * '  Knowledge  comes, 
but  wisdom  lingers,"  and  wisdom  is  still  "the  principal 
thing."  No  system  of  training  ever  devised  can  make  a 
man  wise;  no  system  save  that  of  Nature,  herself,  and 
Nature's  system  demands  the  whole  of  a  human  life, 
and  even  then  is,  I  am  sure,  not  always  successful.  No, 
there  is  only  a  little  that  education  can  do  for  any 
youth:  it  can  help  him  a  little  to  adjust  himself  to  his 
surroundings,  to  the  age  in  which  he  lives ;  it  can  suggest 
to  him  the  pathway  of  happiness  as  indicated  by  all 
human  experience,  but  this  is  all;  there  is  really  in  all 
education,  wherever  or  however  offered,  nothing  different 
from  this.  It  is  still  true  in  the  world  of  wisdom :  "No 


Things  Worth  While  19 

man  can  save  his  brother  or  give  his  soul  a  ransom  for 
him."  Our  more  abundant  courses  of  study,  our  wider 
knowledge,  may  give  more  varied  opportunity,  may  meet 
more  surely  the  individual  taste;  but  the  root  of  the 
matter  must  still  be  the  same ;  the  essentials  of  what  any 
course  of  training,  not  professional,  does  for  a  man,  will 
always  remain  what  they  have  always  been;  they  will 
make  for  his  development  as  a  healthful,  reasonable,  self- 
respecting,  reverent,  and  in  so  far  fortunate  denizen  of 
the  world. 

You  will  note  that  I  say  training  not  professional. 
Professional  training  is  special  and  aims  to  make  a  man 
competent  in  one  single  particular.  We  all  know  what 
this  means,  and  this  need  not  now  be  considered :  but  the 
education  that  is  universal,  that  should  be  accessible  in 
all  our  schools,  that  has  for  its  sole  and  single  object  the 
fitting  of  our  youth  for  fortunate,  peaceful  living  in  a 
civilized  state,  such  education  is  in  no  sense  professional, 
altho  it  may  be  that  professional  studies,  whether  of  law, 
or  medicine,  or  carpentry,  or  agriculture,  may  contribute 
to  its  simpler  purposes.  Let  us  see  now  very  briefly 
what  factors  shall  enter  in  as  essential  to  that  universal 
training  which  varies  not. 

In  the  first  place,  as  the  very  foundation  of  all  for- 
tunate living  in  this  world,  I  name  what  may  be  termed, 
for  lack  of  better  terminology,  the  science  of  health.  The 
very  first  essential  in  all  education  is  the  knowledge  of 
what  makes  and  keeps  our  bodily  cleanliness  and  health. 
No  extended  course  of  study,  no  wealth  of  equipment,  no 
palatial  buildings  or  machinery  can  release  from  this 
physical  obligation.  Here  no  doubt  Nature  will  be  to  us 


2O  On  the  Campus 

our  most  efficient  teacher.  But  we  have  long  since  ceased 
to  heed  Nature.  We  no  longer  live  natural  lives.  We 
are  living  in  ways  in  the  highest  degree  unnatural  and 
artificial.  We  shut  ourselves  in  houses.  We  wear  strange 
swathings  and  bandages  that  we  call  clothing.  We  eat 
all  sorts  of  artificial  food ;  and,  worse  than  all,  that  which 
we  have  not  before  us  in  actual  presentment  as  physical 
fact,  we  build  up  in  imagination;  we  excite  ourselves 
with  vain  longings  for  things  not  yet  possessed ;  we  scare 
ourselves  with  dreams  and  visions,  and  torture  ourselves 
or  entice  ourselves  with  ills  or  pleasures  that  exist  not; 

"We  look  before  and  after  and  pine  for  what  is  not 
And  our  sincerest  laughter  with  true  pain  is  fraught." 

In  fact,  most  of  our  individual  sorrow  in  this  world,  if 
not  all  of  it,  is  incident  to  the  fact  that  while  we  have 
turned  our  backs  upon  Nature  and  are  civilized,  we  are 
not  yet  enlightened.  Nobody  has  to  teach  the  wild  deer 
or  the  prairie  chicken  how  to  be  well ;  and  our  domestic 
animals  would  be  equally  fortunate  did  we  let  them  alone. 
Our  pristine  ancestors  must  have  been  once  as  fine  and 
free  as  their  wild  neighbors  in  the  forests.  On  emerg- 
ing from  the  woods  a  thousand  years  ago,  they  must 
have  brought  with  them  to  their  first  contact  with  civil- 
ization a  tremendous  surplus  of  good  health  or  they 
would  never  have  come  through  those  dreadful  centuries 
of  so-called  Christian  civilization,  the  centuries  of  the 
later  middle  ages.  In  fact  we  are  even  now  as  a  people 
spending  that  inheritance,  with  plenty  of  indications, 
however,  that  its  sources  have  begun  at  length  to  wane. 

It  is  one  of  the  essentials  of  education  to  learn  to  be 
well  and  happy;  and  though  the  sun  of  human  know- 


Things  Worth  While  21 

ledge  should  be  doubly  as  vast  as  now,  and  although  the 
courses  of  study  in  university  and  college  should  display 
it  all,  still  the  man  who  would  attempt  it  all  but  leave  out 
the  care  of  his  bodily  health,  would  be  worse  than  the 
man  who  omits  charity  —  worse  than  nothing.  No 
scholar  can  hope  in  this  day  to  help  and  bless  his  fellow 
men  if  he  must  be  forever  attending  to  his  eyes  or  his 
stomach,  or  his  ears,  or  some  other  piece  of  his  machinery 
gone  wrong.  Ingersoll  used  to  say  that  had  he  been 
making  this  world,  he  had  made  good  health,  and  not 
disease,  catching.  Ingersoll  was  not  very  observing. 
Good  health  is  catching.  Your  competent  physician, 
surgeon,  minister,  lawyer,  is  the  man  of  health  who  car- 
ries with  him  in  his  own  redounding  energy  and  vigor 
the  help  that  others  need.  He  is  radiant,  and  men  are 
blessed  who  meet  him.  And  you,  young  people,  will  go 
out  from  this  college  educated  just  in  so  far  as  your  own 
good  health  enables  you  to  enjoy  your  own  life  and  to 
bring  to  men  about  you  cheer,  and  patience,  and  power. 
Not  many  days  since  Bryn  Mawr  College  awarded  a 
prize  to  the  member  of  the  senior  class  who  during  her 
four-year  course  had  shown  in  the  highest  degree  "joy- 
ousness,  courage,  fortitude,  and  faithfulness."  That 
prize  is  well  founded.  To  show  the  qualities  named  in- 
dicates perennial  good  health,  and  the  exhibition  of  such 
qualities  is  a  mark  of  high  educational  attainment;  for 
they  are  cultivable  virtues  all. 

Closely  associated  with  bodily  health  is  mental  health 
and  I  suspect  that  one  exists  not  without  the  other. 
There  is  no  use  disputing  the  matter;  the  dyspeptic,  the 
epileptic,  the  nervous  man  can  not  for  long  bless  or 


22  On  the  Campus 

benefit  his  fellow  men.  As  the  Germans  have  it,  a  sick 
man  is  krank,  a  crank;  it  can  not  be  otherwise.  What- 
ever your  theory  of  mind  or  soul,  the  only  known  me- 
dium of  activity  is  this  body  of  ours,  and  only  as  the 
instrument  is  clear  and  free  can  the  thought  be  pure  and 
sound  and  true.  The  reasons  why  the  philosophies  of  the 
world  are  so  absolutely  futile,  so  contradictory  in  all 
their  setting  forth  are  two;  first,  the  subject  matter  at- 
tempted transcends  human  knowledge;  and,  second,  the 
philosophers  have  been  more  often  poor  invalids,  often 
celibates,  monks,  and  fathers  of  systems,  but  of  nothing 
else.  I  believe  it  is  safely  stated  that  no  piece  of  litera- 
ture or  philosophy  worth  the  attention  of  the  world  has 
come  from  an  abnormal  man.1  You  must  be,  first  of  all, 
human,  and  love  humanity  before  you  can  portray  or  in 
any  wise  understand,  the  motives  and  passions  of  a 
human  soul. 

A  second  valuable  element  in  education  as  I  would 
present  the  matter  this  evening,  is  a  knowledge  of  com- 
mon English.  No  education  to-day  is  of  very  much  use 
that  leaves  a  man  ignorant  of  good  English.  Whether 
for  one  reason  or  another,  English  has  become  the  im- 
perial language  of  the  world,  and  is  likely  to  be  more 
widely  powerful  and  serviceable  as  the  centuries  go  by. 
One-fifth  of  our  race  to-day  speak  English.  In  China 
alone  do  we  find  any  one  great  body  of  people  in  larger 
numbers  speaking  another  common  tongue.  But  there 
are  those  now  living  who  will  see  English  spoken  over  the 
whole  Chinese  empire.  Now  think  what  this  means.  It 

1 1  do  not  say  ' '  gains  the  attention  of  the  world ; ' '  that  is  an- 
other thing.  Men  read  even  Schopenhauer  and  Nietzsche! 


Things  Worth  While  23 

means  that  the  highest  attainments  of  human  thought  in 
art,  in  letters,  in  philosophy,  are  to  be  open  to  all  men. 
Just  in  so  far  as  light  and  inspiration  can  find  utterance 
and  have  found  utterance  in  English  speech,  just  so  far 
will  these  reach  in  new  pentecostal  blessing  the  waiting 
nations  of  this  world.  Just  as  through  the  instrumen- 
tality of  English  letters,  the  wisdom  of  past  and  present, 
the  best  experience  and  hopes  of  men  have  come  to  you, 
just  so  in  ever  widening  measure  shall  these  things  by 
the  same  agency  come  to  increasing  millions.  Who  shall 
not  prize  a  possession,  a  gift  like  this?  Fortunately  for 
you,  young  people,  it  is  the  speech  to  which  you  are 
born ;  but  let  no  man  think  himself  educated  who  knows 
not  how  to  use  it  with  precision,  correctness,  and  skill. 
Nearly  all  the  really  artistic  contributions  made  by 
America  thus  far  to  the  literature  of  the  world,  originate 
in  New  England.  But  in  New  England  for  two  hundred 
years  learning  had  her  home  in  the  manse,  and  men 
were  students  and  scholars  in  English.  Go  to  the  great 
libraries  of  the  eastern  states,  to  Providence,  for  instance, 
and  see  the  manuscripts  in  keeping  there.  Sermons,  you 
say?  Yes,  sermons;  but  beautifully  written;  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  them,  all  in  elegant  English,  in  pen- 
manship as  if  engraved;  discussing  theological  topics, 
no  doubt,  but  scholarly  to  the  last  iota.  These  pains- 
taking clergymen-scholars  were  the  forerunners  of 
Emerson  and  Lowell  and  Holmes,  and  made  possible  the 
whole  New  England  school  of  literature.  In  our  present 
sowing,  I  confess  I  see  small  promise  of  any  similar  fu- 
ture harvest. 

Study   English;   study   its   masterpieces,    the   Bible, 


24  On  the  Campus 

Shakespeare,  the  histories,  the  poets,  not  for  informa- 
tion merely,  not  merely  for  the  intellectual  delight,  in- 
spiration and  pleasure  that  these  things  so  wonderfully 
afford,  but  that  you  may  become  adept,  expert  in  the 
use  of  the  most  mighty  instrument  now  at  the  service 
of  the  intellect  of  man ! 

A  third  essential,  as  it  seems  to  me,  in  any  man's  edu- 
cation to-day  is  a  knowledge  of  his  own  history.  I  mean, 
of  course,  history  in  a  broad  but  after  all,  personal 
sense.  It  was  the  wise  remark  of  a  French  philosopher 
that  every  man  should  know  at  least  two  things  —  qui 
il  est,  et  ou  il  est,  who  he  is  and  where  he  is ;  that  is,  it 
behooves  a  man  to  know  both  where  he  is  and  what  he  is 
in  this  world-stream  of  change  that  we  call  time.  Now 
the  knowledge  of  history  as  I  would  have  it  at  this  mo- 
ment, is  not  the  mere  perfunctory  acquaintance  with  the 
recorded  facts  of  days  gone  by ;  not  the  mere  knowledge 
of  the  text-books,  that  Columbus,  for  instance,  went 
traveling  with  three  small  vessels,  the  Nina,  the  Pinta, 
and  the  Santa  Maria,  or  that  General  Grant  fought  the 
battles  of  the  Wilderness,  but  an  appreciative  knowledge 
of  the  history  that  touches  immediately  you  and  me, 
that  teaches  us  that  we  are  to-day  and  now,  ourselves,  a 
definite  part  of  history,  that  we  are  what  we  are  and 
where  we  are,  because  of  the  facts  of  the  past  and  that 
to  the  interpretation  of  these  facts  we  this  day  are  set. 

History  touches  us  on  every  hand.  We  live,  for  in- 
stance, in  Delaware  county;  but  why  Delaware  county? 
The  name  of  your  county  brings  you  face  to  face  with 
the  history  of  England  for  a  thousand  years.  Nay, 
there  could  be  no  county  had  there  been  no  count,  in 


Things  Worth  While  25 

French  compte;  no  count,  had  not  the  Roman  emperor 
been  surrounded  by  attendants,  cotwtes,  those  who  jour- 
neyed with  him,  in  time  the  officers  of  his  court,  the 
governors  of  sections  of  his  realm.  And  so  the  Roman 
emperors  go  marching  up  and  down  before  us.  County 
is  not  English;  it  stands  for  the  old  Teutonic  shire-, 
and  so  by  whatever  term  you  call  the  territory,  the 
sheriff  or  shire  reeve  is,  in  English  lands,  lord  of  the 
situation  to  this  day.  And  that  is  your  history  and 
mine. 

This  is  just  a  glimpse  of  history  as  illustrating  the 
conditions  under  which  we  live.  Everything  about  us, 
all  our  institutions  are  historic;  they  are  what  they  are 
for  reason.  Why  do  we  have  two  chambers  in  our  legis- 
lature? And  why  is  one  of  those  called  a  senate*! 

But  these  things  are  perhaps  less  important.  We  use 
many  things  because  we  have  them;  they  come  to  us  as 
part  of  our  inheritance  and  we  are  less  concerned  as  to 
their  significance.  Nay,  we  sometimes  persist  in  retain- 
ing customs  and  institutions  meaningless  if  not  actually 
inconvenient.  Some  people  actually  advocate  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  United  States  Senate:  why  not? 

But  this  historical  relation  touches  us  more  intimately 
still.  We  have  in  the  past  a  personal,  an  individual 
interest  which,  when  realized,  may  wonderfully  aid  in 
solving  many  of  the  problems  of  life.  I  have  little 
sympathy  with  the  thought  of  ancestry;  possibly  for 
good  reasons ;  nevertheless  there  are  many  things  in  our 
personal  history  which  we  can  never  afford  to  forget. 
We  are  nearly  all  of  us  of  Teutonic  or  Celtic  origin. 
This  means  that  we  are  by  nature  free.  We  are  free- 


26  On  the  Campus 

born.  Again,  we  are  the  children  of  men  who  refusing 
the  tyranny  and  oppression  of  Europe  crossed  the  ocean 
to  build  for  themselves  new  homes  in  a  new  land  where- 
in dwelt  liberty.  From  Ireland's  perennial  green,  from 
the  moors  of  England  and  the  heather-clad  hills  of 
Scotland  and  the  sand-girt  forests  of  Germany,  from  the 
valleys  of  Rhine  and  Rhone,  and  the  lilied  meadows  of 
France,  our  fathers  came,  singing  their  songs  as  the 
spirit  gave  them  utterance.  More  than  that,  we  are  most 
of  us  the  direct  descendants  of  the  pioneers  of  this 
prairie  state;  of  men  and  women  who  again  endured 
hardships  for  the  sake  of  a  wider,  fuller,  and  freer  life ; 
men  erect  and  strong,  full  of  health  and  vigor  and  the 
joy  of  living,  men  without  fear,  the  elect  of  the  older 
commonwealths  of  this  republic.  These  were  our  fathers. 
These  built  for  us  these  homes,  planted  these  pleasant 
groves,  these  fertile  farms,  nor  less  our  churches,  col- 
leges, and  schools;  sacrificing  comfort,  wealth,  labor,  all, 
that  their  ideals  might  survive;  hewing  with  their  own 
hands  the  beams  from  the  forest,  the  stone  from  the 
quarry,  and  with  their  own  hands  laying  brick  and  mor- 
tar in  the  original  building  of  such  a  college  as  this, 
that  young  people  in  thousands  might  learn  the  lessons 
of  the  past,  the  science  of  the  hour,  and  be  fitted  to  live 
righteous  lives  of  intelligent  citizenship  for  the  coming 
years.  "We  are  the  children  of  heroes  thrice  renowned, 
the  heroes  of  the  Reformation,  the  heroes  of  the  Revo- 
lution, the  heroes  of  the  prairie;  of  freedom's  battle 
through  a  thousand  years;  we  are  ennobled  by  all  the 
story  of  the  past,  and  none  disputes  our  patent. 

These  faced  the  morning,  the  morning  of  a  better  day, 


Things  Worth  While  27 

and  that  better  day  is  here.  We  shall  know  our  history 
and  feel  its  perpetual  inspiration.  Noblesse  oblige. 
Such  nobility  puts  us  under  obligations.  We  shall  know 
our  own  history,  at  least  so  far  as  to  see  that  languor 
and  pessimism,  and  world-weariness,  belong  not  to  us 
nor  to  our  race.  Our  shields  are  shields  of  expectation. 
No  education  is  of  much  service  which  does  not  heighten 
a  man's  true  self-respect;  not  self-conceit;  that  belongs 
to  the  uneducated,  the  ignoramus. 

But  historical  studies  should  also  establish  in  the  heart 
of  the  youth  respect  for  his  fellow  man.  Here  lies  large- 
ly, as  I  take  it,  the  educational  value  of  linguistic  study 
which  is  properly  historic  study  where  of  any  real  value. 
The  study  of  a  foreign  language  simply  introduces  us 
to  the  knowledge  of  some  other  large  section  of  our  race 
from  whose  acquaintance  we  were  otherwise,  by  the  bar- 
riers of  speech  cut  off.  Only  ignorant  men  despise  their 
fellows.  No  scholar  ever  used  the  term  Dutchman  in 
derision.  The  Mexican  peon  calls  all  Americans  grin- 
gos, ' '  green-horns ; ' ' x  but  we  know  that  this  is  owing  to  a 
lack  of  information  and  to  a  curious  national  pride  which 
is  to  us  simply  amusing ;  and  so,  as  another  of  the  things 
worth  while  in  education,  let  us  put  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  some  foreign  speech.  This  is  not  so  much  for 
convenience  of  intercourse,  if  it  be  a  modern  tongue, 
not  for  the  sake  of  literature,  even,  but  simply  that  we 
may  yield  to  other  men  the  respect  which  is  their  due. 
In  all  social  intercourse,  right  behavior  is  based  upon 
true  recognition,  and  appreciation.  It  is  the  part  of 

i  The  Century  Dictionary  says  the  derivation  is  probably  from 
Griego,  i.  e.,  Greek. 


28  On  the  Campus 

education  to  inculcate  good  manners.  For  the  lack  of 
good  manners,  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  can  ever 
atone.  It  is  well  to  know  things;  it  is  well  to  know 
our  own  history ;  it  is  well  to  have  thorough  self-respect ; 
but  no  amount  of  accumulated  pride  of  race  or  learning 
can  excuse  a  boor.  Courtesy  is  the  delight  of  life ;  it  is 
the  glow  of  sunlight  upon  the  fields  of  ripening  grain, 
and  goes  on  forever,  adding  to  wealth  the  element  of 
abiding  beauty. 

It  will  have  been  noticed  that  everything  cited  so  far, 
as  desirable  in  our  systems  of  training,  has  reference  to 
the  individual  man  and  his  knowledge  of  himself  as 
an  individual;  we  may  not  however,  even  in  this  brief 
resume  omit  reference  to  that  other  great  field  of  human 
thought  and  interest  which  concerns  the  physical  world. 
No  man  may  deem  himself  educated,  or  even  on  the  way 
to  scholarship  to-day,  who  does  not  know  accurately 
some  one  of  the  many  forms  of  physical  science.  This 
for  several  reasons;  in  the  first  place,  the  world  about 
us  is  a  very  wonderful  and  glorious  world,  very  well 
worth  knowing,  and  to  it  we  stand  in  most  intimate  re- 
lation; in  the  second  place,  our  thought  about  this  ma- 
terial world  and  our  knowledge  of  it  combine  to  give 
us  our  philosophy,  our  highest  and  most  wonderful  in- 
tellectual activity.  Nay,  the  religion  of  the  world,  its 
faith,  has  in  all  the  centuries  been  an  expression  of 
human  science,  ennobled  and  made  credible,  possible, 
more  and  more,  as  the  enigma  of  the  universe  becomes 
legible  through  research.  The  highest  thought  in  every 
century  is  an  attempt  to  explain  the  world  and  its  on- 
goings. Thousands  of  years  ago  men  declared,  "The 


Things  Worth  While  29 

works  of  the  Lord  are  great,  sought  out  of  all  them  that 
have  pleasure  therein,"  and  to-day  all  pure  science  is 
but  an  endeavor  to  describe  the  method  of  the  work- 
ing, the  energizing,  the  becoming,  the  evolution  of  the 
universe  as  of  some  vast  unfolding  flower  set  by  time's 
eternal  river. 

Again,  as  immediate  sequence  to  what  has  just  been 
said,  it  is  worth  while  in  your  education  to  know  the 
world-spirit,  the  Zeitgeist,  the  intellectual  attitude  and 
atmosphere  of  the  time  in  which  you  live.  This  varies 
from  generation  to  generation.  There  are  in  each  age, 
say  in  each  century,  certain  intellectual  conditions  under 
which  alone  is  possible,  not  thought  only,  but  all  setting 
forth  of  thought.  Thus,  the  dominant  intellectual  note 
of  the  eighteenth  century  was  religious  scepticism  as 
illustrated  in  the  work  of  such  a  man  as  Voltaire ;  that 
of  the  nineteenth,  the  evolutionary  interpretation  of  the 
variety  of  the  living  world.  No  man  in  either  period 
could  successfully  put  forth  anything  from  his  own 
literary  or  mental  workshop,  and  ignore  the  electric  in- 
tellectual conditions  under  which  all  thinking  men  of 
his  time  were  living.  Humanity  seems  able  to  concern 
itself  with  but  one  thing  at  a  time  and  while  interested 
in  that,  relates  to  that  one,  dominant,  over-mastering 
note,  all  the  minor  strains  of  the  concerto.  I  believe 
that  our  particular  phase  of  the  science-impulse  is  large- 
ly spent.  Perhaps  he  who  reviews  the  twentieth  century 
as  we  here  look  back  upon  that  just  ended,  may  speak 
of  sociology  as  affording  to  the  world  of  thought  its 
dominant  tone  and  chord. 

In  any  event,  in  all  our  educational  efforts  it  is  worth 


30  On  the  Campus 

our  best  endeavor  that  we  recognize  the  philosophic  con- 
ditions under  which  we  work,  that  we  forecast  the  drift 
of  thought,  and  that  we  so  adjust  ourselves  as  to  take 
advantage  of  the  ever  larger  and  broader  view  by  which 
the  new  cycle  is  ever  certain  "to  shame  the  old/' 

Here  then,  is  the  place  of  all  these  wider  institutions 
of  learning  where  college  ranks  against  college,  and 
foundations  and  lectures  and  courses  of  study  are  multi- 
plied in  ever  increasing  complexity.  Here  is  the  place  of 
the  great  university.  While  it  may  primarily  meet  the 
simple  demands  of  the  simpler  training  I  have  already 
sketched,  and  while  it  certainly  must  afford  to  the  pro- 
fessional man,  the  physician,  the  lawyer,  the  engineer, 
the  training  he  needs  for  his  special  business  in  the 
world,  yet  in  a  broader  and  finer  sense  the  great  uni- 
versity is  set  to  represent  the  intellectual  world,  to  ex- 
hibit not  its  attainments  only,  but  its  spirit;  not  merely 
to  foster  learning  and  conserve  it,  but  to  widen  the 
limits  of  human  knowledge  in  every  field,  display  each 
new  attainment,  and  so  maintain  that  noble  intellectual 
ferment  which  carries  the  race  forward,  albeit  but  a 
single  step  at  a  time,  to  ever  clearer  and  better  things. 
In  the  living  universities  of  the  world  the  spirit  of  the 
times  is  not  only  developed,  it  is  forever  made  manifest, 
sent  forth,  and  the  atmosphere  of  these  greater  intellec- 
tual centers  becomes  sooner  or  later  the  familiar  air  of 
every  humblest  study.  To  a  university  as  a  great  mart, 
all  wares  are  brought;  new  caravans  are  continually  ar- 
riving and  the  confusion  not  infrequently  is  great;  but 
the  customer  may  select  his  own,  and  every  one  may 
find  the  object  of  his  quest.  Here  is  the  meeting  place 


Things  Worth  While  31 

of  the  intellectual  world,  and  by  visiting  these  halls, 
these  vast  libraries,  collections  of  art  and  nature,  and  all 
products  of  human  wisdom,  the  student  is  spared  a 
world-journey  and  finds  at  his  hand  the  best  that  every 
age  affords.  Such  an  institution  is  to  be  used  as  men 
and  women  use  an  encyclopedia;  there  should  be  fre- 
quent supplementary  volumes ;  now  and  then  a  new  edi- 
tion, and  a  very  liberal  index. 

Lastly,  let  us  never  forget  that  out  of  all  educational 
training  of  every  kind  and  wherever  offered,  there  comes 
one  superlative  product,  the  crowning  achievement  of  all 
attainments,  blending  these  to  purport,  to  purpose,  to 
efficiency  and  accomplishment;  this  ultimate  sublime  re- 
sult we  reckon  character ;  the  total  aggregate  of  all  those 
powers,  and  tastes,  and  passions,  perceptions,  principles 
which  make  up  the  individual  enlightened  man.  Through 
all  the  course  of  his  school-training  the  student  is 
brought  face  to  face  with  ideals,  the  highest  dreamed  of, 
by  the  best  and  purest  of  the  race ;  he  learns  to  estimate 
value  in  units  that  may  not  be  weighed  in  a  balance 
with  silver  nor  measured  in  ounces  of  gold ;  he  learns  to 
love  that  which  is  beautiful  and  pure  in  art,  in  literature, 
in  life  and  — 

li whosoe'er  in  youth, 

Hath  felt  his  soul  to  such  delights  give  way, 
Shall  feel  congenial  stirrings  late  and  long." 

"Like  to  that  soul,  art  thou,  which  thou  dost  compre- 
hend, ' '  the  proverb  runs ;  and  to  put  the  youthful  spirit 
in  fair  and  living  contact  with  the  precious  garnered 
ideals  of  all  the  race  and  thus  beget  in  him  a  character 
which  shall  make  the  hero,  the  saint,  the  scholar  live 


32  On  the  Campus 

again, —  this  is  not  only  a  thing  worth  while,  it  is  the 
essential  of  education,  past,  present,  and  future. 

Now  it  does  not  take  much  of  a  roof  to  cover  possi- 
bilities such  as  are  here  suggested.  Our  fathers  knew 
this  well,  and  we  their  children  should  not  forget  it, 
nor  be  tempted  to  think  that  large  endowments,  palatial 
structures,  or  the  refinements  purchasable  by  wealth 
can  ever  insure  the  glory  that  we  seek.  All  these  are 
beautiful,  they  make  for  the  convenience,  the  comfort, 
the  stimulus  of  thousands ;  but  the  intellectual  life  is  still 
the  same  sweet,  precious,  simple  thing  it  was  when  Christ 
saw  the  lilies  on  the  field,  or  Socrates  talked  beneath  the 
plane  tree  on  Ilissus'  banks.  Thundering  mills,  roaring 
engines,  and  hissing  pipes  grind  out  and  deliver  the  flour 
that  feeds  the  nations  of  the  world,  but  the  flour  itself 
is  shaped  in  the  tender  blades,  in  silent  fields,  beneath 
the  unpurchased  rays  of  the  blessed  sun,  and  the  soft 
ministrations  of  the  dew  and  rain.  Even  the  kingdom 
of  God  cometh  not  of  observation.  The  things  worth 
while  in  all  our  schools  are  those  not  seen ;  the  quiet  pur- 
pose, the  manifest  high  appreciation  of  that  the  world 
knows  not,  the  association  day  by  day  with  agencies  and 
forces  that  make  for  purity  and  love  and  faith,  for  the 
world  ideal,  to  which  perchance  we  never  may  attain, 
but  which  no  less  shall  be  forever  the  high  habitation, 
the  sacred  fond  retreat  of  every  noblest  soul. 

Nothing  is  more  encouraging  in  these  commencement 
days  in  all  our  schools  than  to  note  how  more  and  more 
the  world  is  coming  to  an  appreciation  of  these  high 
values  for  which  the  schools  have  stood.  More  and  more 
the  world  discovers  how  absolutely  priceless  is  the  con- 


Things  Worth  While  33 

tented  spirit,  the  attitude  of  mind  that  comes  with  know- 
ledge. Vast  fortunes  are  to  their  owners  useless;  but 
every  man  at  this  moment  on  whom  the  conditions  of 
our  time  have  laid  the  burden  of  riches,  seeks,  if  possibly 
he  may  find,  the  shrine  of  learning,  that  he  may  leave 
at  that  altar  the  wealth  that  profits  him  not,  but  which 
he  believes  can  bring  to  other  men  and  other  hearts  the 
real  satisfaction  of  our  soul's  desire.  Is  it  not  wonder- 
ful! The  things  that  really  count  in  all  our  education, 
as  in  human  life,  are  inexpensive  but  eternal  things,  and 
learning?s  crown  is  still,  as  ever,  wrought  in  simple 
leaves ! 


CULTURE  AND  THE  STATE 

Very  welcome  indeed  to  your  speaker  is  the  opportu- 
nity and  privilege  of  this  hour.  To  be  summoned  by  one 's 
Alma  Mater  to  any  position  of  privilege  is  an  honor  that 
may  well  stir  his  best  enthusiasm  and  endeavor;  there 
is  nothing  finer ;  your  speaker  knows  it  and  is  grateful. 

But  to  stand  before  these  young  people,  this  class  of 
1915,  to  speak  to  them  and  for  them,  to  voice  the  con- 
gratulations and  felicitations  of  this  glad  season,  in  pres- 
ence of  proud  parents,  happy  friends,  and  seemingly 
supreme  accomplishment,  of  sunshine  and  roses  and  all 
things  of  beauty  and  of  promise  —  this,  I  say,  touches 
your  speaker  with  a  sympathy,  a  pathos,  an  appreciation 
of  all  that  wells  up  in  the  human  heart,  and  really  makes 
the  honor  of  the  moment,  the  program,  the  titled  and 
stately  pageant  of  these  older  people,  a  thing  of  alto- 
gether less  concern. 

Yours,  young  people,  is  this  day  and  hour;  long  on 
the  creeping  calendar  of  youth  have  you  waited  for  its 
coming,  and  a  stranger  now  shall  not  intermingle  with 
its  joy.  Your  speaker  is  as  one  who  has  long  traveled 
on  the  road  you  this  day  enter.  He  has  been  called  back 
from  far  down  the  way,  perchance  to  tell  you  how  the 
travel  seems  —  its  gladness,  its  hardness,  if  such  there 
be;  its  arbors  of  refreshment,  its  opportunities  and  re- 
wards. 

But  these  fresh  aspiring  spirits  may  not  be  cheated 


Culture  and  the  State  35 

by  such  a  dolorous  tale.  They  are  not  here  for  auto- 
biography, pleasing  form  of  fiction  though  that  be.  They 
are  here  for  themselves,  eager  this  morning  for  their  own, 
for  the  experience  of  life  to  which  they  realize  them- 
selves justly  entitled;  and  they  care  for  no  argument 
save  as  it  relates  directly  to  the  present  moment. 

It  is  not  intended  to  chill  in  any  way  such  exultation ; 
and  yet,  if  we  are  the  wise  men  we  believe  ourselves  to 
be,  we  shall,  I  am  sure,  find  added  gratification  if  we 
study  a  little  the  meaning  of  all  that  has  held  us  willing 
captives  for  a  while,  and  so  made  possible  our  present 
emancipation. 

The  education  of  a  boy,  in  school  or  out  of  it,  may 
proceed  in  any  one  of  four  directions.  It  may  concern 
simply  his  physical  well-being,  teach  him  to  take  care  of 
himself,  his  health  and  life,  how  manfully  to  meet  the 
world ;  it  may  teach  him  how  to  make  a  living,  in  trade, 
profession,  or  vocation ;  it  may  teach  him  how  rightly  to 
use  the  world,  by  awakening  in  him  the  spirit  of  fine 
perception  of  beauty,  an  admiration  of  all  that  is  high 
and  noble;  and  lastly,  it  may  rouse  in  him  a  spirit  of 
reverence  and  appreciation  of  the  unfathomed  mystery 
that  shuts  us  in.  In  other  words,  education  may  be 
either  physical,  and  look  to  bodily  strength ;  or  vocation- 
al, for  business;  or  cultural,  for  culture;  or  religious, 
for  faith  and  duty. 

In  this  present  argument  the  third  alone  may  claim 
attention;  by  no  means,  however,  without  presupposing 
the  other  three ;  and  it  is  proposed  to  show  that  culture, 
which  is  in  danger  to-day  of  being,  at  least,  less  appre- 
ciated, is  not  only  a  legitimate  outcome  of  all  training, 


36  On  the  Campus 

but  is  of  supreme  practical  importance  and  so  of  high 
value  to  our  social  and  political  life. 

The  subject  proposed  sometimes  makes  less  appeal  to 
men.  Loud  objections  to  colleges  and  culture  are  heard 
betimes ;  in  short,  it  is  notorious  that  all  our  colleges  and 
universities  are  just  now  under  severest  scrutiny  and 
criticism,  at  the  hands  of  friends.  The  University  of 
Wisconsin,  for  example,  and  the  whole  State,  are  torn 
into  factions,  in  such  fashion  that  years  will  hardly 
suffice  to  restore  a  condition  of  further  progress  and 
power.  Every  college  in  the  country  is  sure  to  be  called 
to  account ;  colleges  are  declared  not  practical,  or,  judged 
by  their  product,  even  vicious;  it  is  said  that  they  serve 
neither  the  citizen  nor  the  state;  that  they  are  a  waste 
of  time;  that  they  teach  nothing  useful;  that  the  boy 
never  does  anything  until  he  gets  away ;  and  so  on. 

Now  colleges  of  old  were  set  for  what  we  term  culture ; 
and  if  present  objections  hold,  the  case  is  bad  enough. 
We  are  indeed  wasting  both  time  and  money ;  and  lovers 
of  their  fellowmen  should  immediately  face  about  and 
turn  their  efforts  to  some  more  practical  employ.  The 
problem  is  of  serious  import.  We  can  not  afford  to 
make  mistakes.  The  state  is  the  one  terrestrial  thing  for 
which  we  live;  to  it  all  our  loyalty  goes  out;  and  if  in 
any  way  our  colleges  are  less  serviceable  to  the  great 
republic,  to  the  commonwealth,  or  even  to  the  indi- 
vidual citizen,  we  should  know  it,  submit  the  case  to  the 
great  '  *  committee  on  retrenchment  and  reform, ' '  and  do 
something  better.  Perhaps  we  may  see  the  situation 
more  clearly  if  we  study  for  a  little  just  what  is  meant 


Culture  and  the  State 


37 


by  culture,  what  is  proposed.  Then  we  may  understand 
its  bearing  upon  our  more  public  life. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  let  us  define,  if  we  can,  just 
what  we  mean  by  culture. 

You  who  have  been  affecting  the  classics  know,  of 
course,  that  our  present  use  of  the  word  is  entirely  a 
figure  of  speech.  Culture,  to  start  with,  meant  the  care 
and  development  of  a  plant.  This  significance  still  lin- 
gers in  agriculture,  the  cultivation  of  the  field  —  that  is, 
of  what  grows  there  — ,  horticulture,  the  tillage  of  the 
hort-yard,  or  orchard,  as  we  say,  and  so  on.  Thousands 
of  years  ago  men  found  that  if  they  took  a  little  care  of 
a  plant,  gave  it  a  good  place  on  which  to  grow,  with 
plenty  of  air  and  sunshine  and  water,  the  plant  greatly 
changed,  offered  new  characters,  or  at  least  new  phases 
of  the  old :  the  smooth-leafed  wild  mustard  of  Europe,  on 
cultivation,  took  on  the  form  of  cabbage,  became  a  cab- 
bage-head, in  fact;  the  green,  tough  fruit  of  a  Persian 
shrub  became  a  peach ;  the  sour  crab,  an  apple ;  the  wild 
grain,  wheat ;  and  so  on ;  all  this  thousands  of  years  be- 
fore men  had  ever  written  a  word.  Small  brown  men, 
as  I  think,  away  back  yonder  in  the  forgotten  years,  in 
the  childhood  of  humanity,  made  wonderful  discoveries; 
they  discovered  the  culture  of  plants.  So  it  happened 
that  when  at  last  men  did  begin  to  think  and  to  write, 
the  culture  of  plants  had  long  been  familiar  as  to  you 
and  to  me. 

As  compared  with  the  story  of  the  plants,  Cicero  was 
a  modern.  He  looked  out  upon  a  civilized  world;  and, 
full  of  genius  and  wit  and  all  accomplishment  as  he  was, 
it  occurred  to  him  to  compare  the  mental  experiences  of 


38  On  the  Campus 

men  with  the  history  of  the  plant;  and  so  the  famous 
orator  flashed  all  the  mystery  and  the  beauty  of  those 
natural,  visible  processes  among  the  plants  into  the 
richness  of  one  fine  metaphor,  "Cultura  animi  philos- 
phia  est"  —  philosophy  is  the  culture  of  the  soul ! 

By  philosophy  in  this  case  Cicero  refers,  of  course,  to 
all  the  phases  of  intellectual  activity  in  which  the  men 
of  his  time  indulged.  He  had  before  him  all  Greek  lit- 
erature, Greek  art,  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians;  all 
the  science  of  the  ancient  world ;  the  deep  things  of  Aris- 
totle, Thales,  and  Pythagoras;  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  by  bringing  all  these  things  into  contact  with  our 
mental  powers,  effects  comparable  to  those  seen  in  the 
vegetable  world,  out  in  the  fields,  might  well  be  expected. 
Cicero  evidently  thought  the  thing  practicable ;  the  ques- 
tion for  us  to  decide  is :  if  practicable,  is  it  also  practical  ? 
Is  it  worth  our  while? 

It  is  evident  that  if  we  wish  to  improve  to  our  greater 
pleasure  the  plants  with  which  we  have  to  do,  we  must 
cultivate  them;  and  so  among  the  generations  of  men, 
Cicero  would  intimate;  if  we  would  have  olives  and  ap- 
ples and  peaches,  and  daisies,  and  even  cabbage-heads, 
and  not  mere  cabbages,  we  must  apply  definite  processes 
and  principles  of  culture,  somewhat  as  these  obtain  in 
the  physical  world. 

No  figure,  of  course,  may  be  more  than  illustrative; 
nevertheless,  that  involved  in  our  present  use  of  the  word 
culture  is  unusually  far-reaching  in  application.  It  is 
more  than  illustrative;  it  is  illuminative.  Let  us  com- 
pare a  little  physical  fact  and  mental  accomplishment. 

In  the  first  place,  as  a  botanist  I  know  not  a  single 


Culture  and  the  State  39 

plant  which  may  not  be  susceptible  to  the  influences  of 
culture.  Of  course  we  have  not  attempted  them  all ;  in- 
deed, we  have  tried  extremely  few,  but  these  in  variety 
sufficiently  to  establish  the  principle.  Of  course,  our 
work  in  recent  times  has  been  simply  to  extend  the  work 
of  our  far-away  predecessors,  who  first  sowed  seeds  and 
made  the  astounding  discovery  that,  ' '  whatsoever  a  man 
soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap. ' '  Men  applied  the  prin- 
ciple by  sowing  what  they  preferred,  and  that  alone; 
and  the  marvelous  fact  is,  that  only  within  the  last 
twenty-five  or  thirty  years  have  we  begun  in  our  labora- 
tories and  upon  our  experiment  farms  to  do  just  that 
same  thing.  And  yet  we  undertake  to  fill  the  world  with 
the  noise  of  our  discoveries  and  our  accomplishments ! 

So  I  return  to  the  statement;  not  a  single  plant  but 
might  lend  itself  to  culture's  suggesting  guidance.  You 
may  say  nothing  can  be  done  with  thistles,  cockle-burs, 
and  darnel.  This  is  not  entirely  a  story  in  botany,  or  I 
might  show  what  has  been  done  with  these  very  plants, 
that  what  they  are  is  the  result  of  Nature's  tillage,  and 
is  by  her  approved ;  —  we  may  prefer  something  else. 
But  when  Mr.  Burbank  takes  the  desert  cactus,  almost 
the  fiercest  plant  we  know,  and  converts  it  into  the  inof- 
fensive wealth  of  the  meadow,  into  forage  for  cattle,  into 
delicacies  for  the  table,  pickles,  confections,  and  pre- 
serves, surely  no  plant  may  be  put  down  as  hopeless. 

To  what  limit  may  culture  not  reach,  or  where  are  then 
the  bounds  of  its  applicability'  Apparently  in  the  nat- 
ural, physical  world,  bounds  there  are  none.  But  for  us, 
in  our  effort  to  deal  with  any  particular  plant,  there  is  a 
limitation,  just  one  that  I  know.  Nature's  long  tuition 


40  On  the  Campus 

in  the  millenia  of  life's  past  inhibits  our  hasty  effort. 
Here  it  is  time  that  is  long,  and  art  that  is  short.  What 
by  indefinite  time  has  been  brought  to  pass,  that  we  may 
not,  in  our  brief  years,  recall.  We  may  go  forward ;  the 
way  is  long,  and  leads  not  to  Tipperary.  Still  abides  the 
profound  though  simple  dictum :  "  Of  thorns  men  do  not 
gather  figs,  nor  of  a  bramble-bush  gather  they  grapes." 

We  may  by  cultivation  make  a  better  thorn,  but  we 
may  not  make  it  a  fig-tree :  we  may  change  the  bramble, 
lead  it  on  to  all  forms  of  bramble-hood,  but  never  to 
identity  with  the  grape.  The  application  in  our  efforts 
at  human  culture  is  easy ;  if  we  succeed  we  shall  not  hope 
to  change  identity;  form  and  expression  only  are  sub- 
ject to  our  behest.  John  Jones  will  still  be  Jones,  but 
he  will  be  a  cultured  John;  William  Patterson  will  be 
Patterson  still,  but  a  Patterson  transformed ! 

But  let  us  see  something,  if  we  may,  of  the  manner  in 
which  Nature  has,  in  all  the  course  of  ages,  brought  our 
plants  to  the  condition  in  which  we  find  them.  Her 
methods  of  culture  may  be  at  least  suggestive,  for  that 
ancient  dame  is  always  consistent  with  herself  and  we 
are  still  her  children.  Whatever  else  is  true,  let  us  be 
sure  that  Nature's  methods  are  in  general  direct,  and 
right,  and  simple;  in  general  slow  and  quiet,  but  per- 
sistent. 

In  our  attempt  to  name  Nature's  all-compelling  school, 
we  say  environment.  From  grade  to  grade  she  leads 
along,  by  varying  environment.  The  surface  of  the 
planet  changes,  its  atmospheric  relations,  climatic  condi- 
tions change.  Mountains  rise  to  touch  the  clouds  of 
heaven,  and  sink  again  to  the  general  level.  Fertile  areas 


Culture  and  the  State  41 

are  shut  off  from  rain  and  become  a  desert.  The  planet 
changes.  But  all  these  changes  are  slow,  how  very  slow ! 
and  the  plants  perceive  no  change;  instead,  they  become 
absolutely  transformed,  become  used  to  new  conditions; 
so  that  at  length  we  have  the  richness  of  variety  that  we 
are  only  now  beginning  a  little  to  understand.  Heredity 
is  to-day  the  problem  of  natural  science.  We  do  not 
solve  it :  we  are  finding  only  the  pathway  along  which  its 
impulse  moves.  It  is  difficult;  small  wonder.  What  we 
see,  the  present ;  not  the  ultimate ;  the  unfinished  product 
of  Nature 's  culture-methods,  operating  through  ten  thou- 
sand thousand  generations! 

The  physical  conditions  of  this  world,  then,  the  condi- 
tions amid  which  life  is  called  to  act,  change,  change  all 
the  time;  generally  slowly,  but  at  length  definitely  and 
appreciably;  and  life,  plants,  animals,  have  learned  to 
respond.  Were  it  not  so,  all  our  effort  would  be  vain. 
Nature  began  the  scheme  of  culture,  and  in  all  we  do  in 
garden  and  field,  we  are  but  following  her  cue.  We 
change  the  conditions  under  which  the  plant  grows,  and 
the  plant  changes.  Shakespeare  knew  this  very  well. 
Read  act  iv,  scene  iv,  of  A  Winter's  Tale  if  you  would 
understand  what  four  hundred  years  ago  men  knew  of 
plant-culture. 

Precisely  as  with  plants,  so  it  is  with  our  human  till- 
age. We  change  conditions  and  all  changes.  Monmouth 
College  brings  from  their  various  far-scattered  homes 
these  eager,  growing  youth.  She  changes  their  environ- 
ment. She  brings  them  into  a  new  atmosphere,  an  at- 
mosphere of  scholarship,  where  learning  is  the  only  value, 
wisdom  the  only  sunshine,  the  encomium  of  good  and 


42  On  the  Campus 

wise  men  the  immediate  purpose,  the  approval  of  the 
great  and  good  of  every  century  the  supreme  reward; 
to  match  the  self-sacrifice,  the  devotion  of  men  who  live 
for  others,  the  sole  ambition.  She  brings  them  in  pres- 
ence of  new  and  wonderful  scenes,  truths  which  stimulate 
reason,  quicken  the  imagination,  the  very  wine  and  the 
bread  of  intellectual  life,  and  everything  is  changed; 
ideals,  intentions  are  changed;  values  are  changing;  the 
world  is  changed;  henceforth  none  other  light  is  sweet, 
none  other  air  can  kindle  for  these  young  men  the  fires 
of  enthusiasm.  They  have  found  a  different  universe 
and  they  know  not  how ! 

It  appears  that  it  does  not  take  much  to  feed  a  plant. 
The  green,  growing  thing  almost  manufactures  its  own 
food  as  it  goes  along.  The  plant  assimilates,  we  say ;  we 
do  not  know  just  what  it  really  does;  that  is  quite  an- 
other thing;  but  the  plant  assimilates,  i.e.,  makes  over  to 
itself,  like  to  itself,  the  pabulum  inorganic  just  before  it. 
The  dead  stuff  becomes  living  stuff.  Mystery  of  mys- 
teries !  The  thing  goes  on  before  us  all  the  time ;  every 
June  day,  with  a  perfect  roar,  as  of  Niagara,  on  these 
glorious  valley  plains,  in  these  wondrous  gardens,  could 
we  only  see  it  and  hear  it!  No  doubt  of  the  fact:  tons 
and  tons  of  accomplishment  in  yon  green  field  even  as  we 
speak.  Marvel  of  marvels !  Culture  or  no  culture,  only 
think  of  it !  A  little  water,  the  atmosphere  with  its  vital 
oxygen,  a  little  C02,  a  few  earthy  salts,  and  lo!  the  sheen 
of  leaf,  the  strength  of  stem,  the  splendor  and  perfume 
of  flower,  the  glory  of  fruit. 

And  so  in  the  culture  of  the  souls  of  men,  such  are  in 
fact  the  tremendous  possibilities;  for  figurative  though 


Culture  and  the  State  43 

our  speech  may  be,  we  are  dealing  now  with,  something 
much  more  than  a  figure.  The  ways  of  human  culture 
are  the  ways  of  nature  with  the  roses.  The  youthful 
mind  appropriates,  assimilates  in  strangest  but  most  posi- 
tive fashion ;  does  not  borrow,  does  not  much  accumulate 
fact  or  statement;  actually  assimilates  and  grows!  You 
place  before  young  people,  in  the  atmosphere  just  de- 
scribed, literature,  history,  science,  art,  labor,  any  skill 
of  brain  or  hand;  you  show  these  things;  you  awaken 
appetite,  interest,  and  away  they  go!  The  intellectual 
life  takes  care  of  itself,  just  as  does  the  life  of  the  plant 
The  far  fields  of  history,  for  example,  widen  till  the  lad 
can  see  naught  else.  Himself  wins  Marathon  and  Sala- 
mis.  'Tis  he  that  walks  at  sunrise  by  the  creeping  Nile 
and  sees  the  earliest  ray  pick  out  the  golden  glory  re- 
corded long  ago  upon  the  pyramid's  sloping  sides.  He 
knows  the  secret  of  that  sad  stone  face  they  call  the 
Sphinx,  watching  for  the  morning;  he  walks  with  Peri- 
cles among  the  marble  glories  of  that  priceless  Athenian 
hill;  he  traces,  with  busy  finger,  wall  succeeding  wall 
that  vainly  shut  in  the  majesty  of  the  seven  hills ;  he  sees 
long  roads  that  run  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ;  he,  reading 
the  opening  pages  of  pictorial  Gibbon,  watches  the 
marching  files  of  the  imperial  guard  as  with  purple  ban- 
ners they  bear  to  all  the  world  the  peace  of  Rome. 

You  show  literature  to  the  careless  boys ;  some  of  them 
will  plunge  into  her  fascinating  tomes ;  philosophy,  poet- 
ry, story,  the  languages  of  man.  Here  is  a  dream-world, 
un vexed  by  noise  or  tumult  or  war's  alarm,  an  exhibit 
of  real  culture,  not  kultur.  The  student  learns  how  bar- 
barism, alike  of  pagan  and  Christian  centuries,  sweeps 


44  On  the  Campus 

from  all  the  hills  and  plains  the  clustered  monuments  of 
art,  sends  to  oblivion  whole  nations  and  tribes  of  men, 
while  literature  somehow  survives,  and  tells,  to  all  who 
read,  the  tale  of  human  hope  and  human  sorrow.  ' '  Cities 
rise  and  sink  like  bubbles  on  the  water/'  but  somehow 
the  dreams  of  men  remain. 

Remember,  only  real  literature  persists;  not  foolish- 
ness. The  graffiti  abide  because  they  mar  the  master- 
piece; but  the  graffiti  are  naught.  Only  persistent  real 
literature  can  meet  the  purposes  of  culture.  The  plant 
must  have  real  food.  You  may  not  feed  a  plant  on  saw- 
dust or  pine  shavings:  no  more  shall  you  feed  a  boy's 
mind  on  shot-rubbish,  ashes,  or  rottenness  of  any  sort, 
though  assembled  verily  as  "The  Eyes  of  the  World." 

Take  another  sort  of  intellectual  food.  Take  the  facts 
and  theories  of  natural  science,  of  physics  or  mathemat- 
ics. These  shall  stir  ambition  and  rouse  an  interest  per- 
haps all  too  keen.  It  is  sometimes  thought  that  the  his- 
tory of  days  gone  by  is  of  less  import,  as  too  remote  from 
the  ordinary  interests  and  concepts  of  the  life  of  this  day. 
But  for  the  normal  youth  the  source  of  all  that  comes 
makes  no  slightest  difference.  The  plant  cares  no  whit 
in  what  glacier,  or  mill  of  the  gods,  was  ground  the 
earth-flour  on  which  it  feeds.  Old  things,  new  things, 
are  alike  to  plant  and  to  boy;  they  are  all  new  to  that 
which  begins  to  live ! 

There  is  no  doubt  of  the  fascination  of  recent  science, 
especially  of  the  so-called  applied  sciences;  these,  as 
nothing  else,  shall  quicken  the  dormant  powers  of  youth. 
Here  is  something  "doing";  the  boy  is  interested;  per- 
haps not  so  much  in  science  as  in  invention,  in  the  work 


Culture  and  the  State  45 

of  his  own  hands,  ere  ever  other  forms  of  education  be 
once  thought  of;  in  electric  lamp  and  train,  in  auto, 
aeroplane,  the  implements  of  the  kitchen,  the  very  toys 
that  move  in  wonder.  Oh,  yes ;  science  shall  serve !  But 
after  all,  is  this  science?  If  so,  is  it  a  means  of  grace 
and  culture?  It  is  applied  science;  it  does  much,  no 
doubt ;  for  all  activity  contributes ;  such  gifts  prepare  the 
way.  But  does  it  meet,  after  all,  the  highest  needs  of  the 
life  we  are  seeking  here  to-day  ?  Plants  indeed  will  grow 
with  electric  light,  but  they  need  the  light  of  a  larger 
luminary.  Rods  of  steel  may  give  the  plant  support, 
but  the  oak  and  pine  need  them  not.  No ;  these  gifts  of 
science  and  their  use,  invaluable  as  these  things  are,  are 
not  just  now  in  question;  may  not,  as  it  seems  to  me,  be 
reckoned  as  of  highest  cultural  value ;  to  so  estimate  were 
unfair  to  science  herself,  whose  power  and  fascination 
and  inspiration  lie  deeper  far,  and  higher  far. 

Serviceable  as  all  invention  and  industry  may  appear, 
the  culture  here  discussed  lies  rather  in  pure  science,  in- 
tellectual activity,  the  intellectual  research  and  triumph 
which  has  made  possible  applied  science,  the  brilliancy 
and  the  accomplishment  of  our  age.  The  wonderful 
visions  of  Lavoisier,  of  Crookes,  of  Thompson,  of  Mme. 
Curie,  and  such  explorers,  revealing  to  us  the  constitu- 
tion of  matter,  the  make-up  of  the  worlds  —  these  con- 
stitute the  real  facts  of  physical  science,  these  the  finest 
pabulum  of  the  inquiring  soul.  Faraday's  lines  or 
streams  of  force  end  in  the  wireless  messages  flitting 
perhaps  this  moment  above  our  heads.  Every  boy  wants 
a  wireless  station,  indeed;  but  better  still,  every  normal 
youth  wishes  that  he  could  understand  it !  The  science, 


46  On  the  Campus 

where  the  intellect  really  has  play,  lies  in  the  world  in- 
visible, where  molecules  and  atoms  have  been  wont  to 


"The   rushing  metamorphosis, 
Dissolving  all  that  fixture  is, 
Melts  things  that  be  to  things  that  seem 
And  solid  nature  to  a  dream." 

Nay  ;  the  atoms  themselves  are  gone.  Ions  and  electrons, 
mere  disembodied  units  of  energy,  are  before  us  now, 
bringing  analysis  and  even  system  to  the  assumedly  in- 
divisible ;  and  we  venture  to  speak  of  the  nucleus  of  the 
hydrogen  atom,  hitherto  the  most  minute  of  things  con- 
ceived, and  even  to  assert  that  that  now  reckoned  the 
most  minutest  thing,  visible  only  to  the  eye  of  the  in- 
tellect, as  in  its  quest  it  wanders  beyond  the  dominion  of 
the  seen,  and  studies  in  the  '  '  light  that  never  was  on  sea 
or  land/'  —  that  that  minutest  nucleus  has,  as  things 
electric  go,  a  definite  algebraic  sign!  If  anything  may 
quicken  the  spirit  that  is  in  us,  surely  here  is  stimulus 
refined.  On  what  gossamer  threads  in  heedless  safety 
imagination  runs  to  bridge  its  dizzy  way  far  through 
worlds  unlimited,  unvisited,  unviewed,  yet  real  as  the 
universe  itself  ! 

According  to  quoted  dictum  of  Matthew  Arnold,  cul- 
ture in  the  active  sense  is  the  quest  of  sweetness  and 
light;  in  other  words,  it  is  the  quest  of  beauty,  that 
which  pleases,  and  wisdom,  that  which  guides.  How 
does  the  scientific  speculation  of  the  day  meet  both  re- 
quirements, at  once  charming  us,  and  leading  to  more 
and  more  certain  knowledge  of  the  truth;  pragmatic 
truth,  growing,  changing  in  the  indefinite  grandeur  of 
its  simple  splendor! 


Culture  and  the  State  47 

Precisely  in  the  same  way,  did  time  permit,  we  might 
discover  art,  the  skill  of  painter,  architect,  sculptor, 
weaver;  the  industry  of  bench  or  forge  or  field,  cultural 
every  one;  each  of  these  things  may  stir  the  youthful 
soul.  The  ring  of  the  anvil,  the  hum  of  the  saw,  the 
whistle  of  the  great  smoothing-plane  along  the  straight- 
ening edge  of  boards,  even  the  almost  inaudible  rustling 
of  the  plough  as  it  passes  through  the  glebe  —  all  these 
things  are  music  to  the  intellectual  ear.  No;  not  all 
these  things  —  oh  no !  —  but  any  one  of  them,  may  afford 
food  for  the  spirit  and  so  rouse  it  to  that  quickened 
sense  of  light  which  is  culture.  They  are  all  filled  with 
meaning;  they  tell  of  fact  accomplished,  of  plan,  and 
thought,  and  purpose ;  of  beauty  that  pleases,  of  wisdom 
that  guides.  Simple  things  are  these,  but  like  the  great 
things  of  science,  for  that  very  reason,  cultural,  assim- 
ilable to  the  human  spirit. 

But  now  having  seen  something,  very  little,  I  admit,  of 
the  food-supply  which  our  age  offers  to  the  minds  of 
aspiring  and  ingenious  youth,  it  is  time  we  turned  to  ex- 
amine for  a  little  the  outcome,  to  see,  if  we  may,  what 
comes  of  all  this;  in  fine,  to  learn  what  may  be  the  pos- 
sible value  of  such  intellectual  exercise  and  experience 
when  brought  back  to  contact  with  our  every-day  world ; 
when,  leaving  the  confines  of  school-room  and  campus, 
we  walk  the  ordinary  ways  of  men  and  meet  the  real 
problems  that  vex  our  individual  and  social  life.  How 
can  the  culture  which  the  schools  afford  make  the  indi- 
vidual who  has  felt  its  touch,  more  fit  for  civic  duty  and 
accomplishment?  This  culture,  found  in  college,  is  said 
to  be,  let  us  recall,  absolutely  without  practical  value. 


48  On  the  Campus 

It  may  be  noted  in  passing,  that  if  the  boy  comes  out 
with  a  definite  career  before  him,  no  one  then  seems  in- 
clined to  question  the  value  of  his  training.  If  he  turn 
out  a  lawyer,  a  minister,  a  scholar,  a  teacher,  or  if  he 
apply  his  knowledge  in  some  evident,  visible  way,  as  an 
engineer,  or  a  contractor,  or  an  inventor,  or  musician, 
and  especially  if  he  greatly  win,  if  he  "  makes  good, ' '  as 
men  say  —  then  the  work  of  the  college  is  of  value ;  wis- 
dom is  justified  of  her  children. 

But  I  have  been  pleading  for  something  else,  for  pure 
science,  for  the  spirit  of  learning,  for  the  very  beauty  of 
labor,  for  a  resultant  attitude  of  mind,  for  character; 
and  I  must  now  defend  the  thesis,  that  this  viewless 
thing,  this  mere  way  of  looking  at  things,  is  yet  of  value 
to  the  state. 

The  happiness  of  what  we  call  the  state,  its  good  for- 
tune,  is  nothing  else  than  the  happiness  of  its  individual 
citizens.  If  every  citizen,  if  all  citizens  are  happy  and 
fortunate,  then  the  state  is  successful,  realizes,  in  so  far, 
its  purpose.  If  culture,  then,  does  no  more  than  con- 
tribute to  the  happiness  of  its  fortunate  possessors,  it  is 
justified  and  so  far  contributes  to  the  general  good.  That 
cultured  men  are  happier  men  than  they  would  other- 
wise be,  goes  without  saying.  There  are  no  pleasures 
like  intellectual  pleasures;  there  is  no  joy  like  the  joy 
of  knowing ;  and  the  number  of  citizens  realizing  this  in 
personal  experience  should  be  as  great  as  possible. 

But  it  is  urged  that  men  from  cultural  colleges,  even 
if  happier,  are  useless;  they  are  dreamers;  given  to  in- 
tellectual concerns;  they  are  incapable  of  dealing  with 
practical  affairs.  Let  us  omit  the  dreams,  for  a  little, 
and  get  this  objection  out  of  our  way. 


Culture  and  the  State  49 

Culture  tends,  it  is  believed,  to  injure  the  state  by  en- 
larging the  army  of  the  inefficient. 

It  is  admitted,  of  course,  that  cultural  education,  what- 
ever its  basis,  may  not  always  succeed;  does  not  always 
furnish  forth  a  man  of  service.  This  for  two  good  rea- 
sons :  first,  notwithstanding  venerated  authority,  all  men 
are  not  created  equal.  There  is  diversity  of  gift.  Sec- 
ond, the  influence  of  the  teacher  in  the  college  is  not  the 
only  factor  in  determining  individual  activity.  Condi- 
tions of  wealth  or  poverty,  health,  environment,  early 
surroundings  and  education,  parental  care  —  all  these 
things  affect,  as  they  do  other  people,  men  who  enjoy 
opportunities  for  culture.  Intellectual  training  not  in- 
frequently corrects  such  handicaps  to  individual  success ; 
but  not  always.  There  is  no  culture  of  the  plant  unless 
the  plant  is  alive ;  it  must  respond ;  and  so  there  is  no  in- 
tellectual culture  without  effort  on  the  part  of  the  sub- 
ject. Culture  should  make  for  activity,  and  I  am  pre- 
pared to  show  that  the  man  of  culture  is  not  only  ready 
to  work  along  the  lines,  unremunerative  generally,  in 
which  he  has  at  college  found  pleasant  employ ;  but  he  is 
perfectly  ready  to  join  the  vast  industrial  army  of  the 
commonwealth,  and  to  do  work  with  his  hands,  directly. 
Hopkinson  Smith  was  a  lighthouse  builder.  Some  of 
the  most  cultured  men  I  have  known  have  worked  at 
the  bench,  designing  and  building  beautiful  furniture, 
houses,  wheels,  etc.  Some  have  been  carpenters,  print- 
ers, weavers,  gardeners,  farmers.  It  is  simply  idle,  there- 
fore, to  say  that  culture  and  labor  do  not  go  together: 
the  wide  school  of  those  who  follow  William  Morris  rise 
up  to  confute  forever  such  a  notion. 


50  On  the  Campus 

In  the  May  Atlantic  Monthly  Mr.  Judy  tells,  in  a  de- 
lightful paper,  how  he  and  his  wife  bring  all  the  culture 
of  the  schools  and  seventeen  years'  experience  in  parish 
work  besides,  to  meet  the  problems  of  a  farm,  that  type 
of  industry  which  most  people  think  to  approach  with- 
out intellectual  effort  of  any  sort,  and  which  men  be- 
lieve, or  pretend  to  believe,  is  entirely  remote  from  cul- 
ture and  the  way  of  the  finest  exercise  of  human  skill. 

In  a  great  college  that  I  chance  to  know,  where  are 
some  three  thousand  students,  probably  forty  per  cent, 
year  by  year,  labor  with  their  hands  to  support  them- 
selves, in  whole  or  in  part.  Labor  is  sweet,  its  products 
are  beautiful  and  pleasant  things ;  itself  is  culture,  when 
rightly  used,  the  intellect  touches  it  with  beauty  as  sun- 
light gilds  the  furrowed  field,  and  every  man  of  culture 
daily  breathes  the  petition  of  the  old-time  poet:  "And 
let  the  beauty  of  the  Lord  our  God  be  upon  us ;  and  estab- 
lish Thou  the  work  of  our  hands  upon  us ;  yea,  the  work 
of  our  hands,  establish  Thou  it. ' ' 

The  fact  remains  that  the  whole  aim  of  culture  is  ser- 
vice. As  Arnold  puts  it,  it  is  to  make  beauty  and  wis- 
dom prevail.  Culture  would  bring  gifts  to  men,  show 
them  how  to  appreciate  the  good  that  is  in  life,  and  to 
use  that  which  makes  for  real  happiness  and  health. 
Who  are  the  men  who  are  serving  their  fellows  directly 
this  day  in  all  forms  of  social  effort  ?  They  are,  like  our 
own  McClaughry,  to  a  man,  men  of  refinement,  scholar- 
ship, culture;  men  who  bring  to  bear  the  best  that  the 
schools  can  give  in  helping  the  state  to  care  for  its  citi- 
zens, to  govern  them  justly,  skillfully,  and  magnanimous- 
ly; to  deliver  the  poor  and  the  needy  from  robbery  and 


Culture  and  the  State 


oppression,  and  to  save  little  children  and  their  mothers 
from  sorrow  and  want.  Who  are  the  men  who  plan  your 
fine  streets,  secure  for  all  the  people  your  public  parks, 
your  avenues,  the  play-ground  for  the  children  of  the 
poor?  Who  are  all  these?  These  are  men  of  culture, 
men  who  have  ideals,  who  have  dreams,  if  you  please, 
and  who  make  their  dreams  come  true ;  not  great  money- 
makers, perchance,  but  men  who  can  persuade  even 
wealth  to  service,  and  so,  without  taxation,  bring  vast 
private  fortune  to  the  aid  of  every  good  and  glorious 
cause.  Nay,  who  is  the  man  who  at  this  moment  in  the 
name  of  common  humanity  and  in  defense  of  the  citizens 
of  the  republic  denounces  the  murder  of  innocent  women 
and  children  and  calls  warring  nations  to  account  ?  Who 
is  this  man?  A  man  of  culture,  a  college  professor,  a 
student  of  history,  a  scholar,  but  a  courageous  and  manly 
man,  whom  the  nation  rises  to  honor  and  applaud  with 
unanimity  unknown  for  fifty  years.  Culture,  the  most 
impractical  sort  of  culture,  as  men  sometimes  assert,  does 
somehow  serve  and  serve  tremendously  in  the  great  prob- 
lems which  affect  mankind. 

But  culture  not  only  contributes  to  the  satisfaction  of 
individual  life  and  to  the  sanity  and  service  of  the  com- 
munity at  large,  but  it  serves  the  world  in  still  another 
way,  and  this  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  and  impor- 
tant of  all.  Culture  sets  before  men  certain  standards 
of  value  which,  in  so  far  as  they  are  seen,  change  and 
temper  the  whole  course  of  human  living.  Here  I  think 
is  to  be  found  the  explanation  of  most  of  the  criticism 
by  which  cultural  education  has  been  and  to-day  is  so 
fiercely  assailed. 


52  On  the  Campus 

For  the  ordinary  man,  value  is  a  thing  easily  defined. 
He  knows  what  value  is,  for,  as  he  says,  he  knows  the 
value  of  everything  about  him.  True,  the  dictionaries 
take  columns  to  define  the  various  meanings  of  that  one 
word,  value;  but  that  is  because  the  dictionaries  are  not 
practical:  any  boy  on  the  street  will  tell  you  that  the 
value  of  anything  is  "what  you  can  get  for  it."  All 
value  is  referable  to  exchange,  to  commerce,  and  we  are 
face  to  face  with  the  so-called  "commercial  spirit"  of 
the  time. 

Small  wonder  that  this  is  so.  We  have  as  a  people  be- 
come suddenly  rich,  and  the  penalties  of  wealth  are  upon 
us.  Within  twenty  years  the  wealth  of  these  valley 
states  has  increased  two  or  three  hundred  per  cent.  In 
Iowa  every  fourth  family  owns  an  automobile,  the  pro- 
portion greatest  in  the  country,  where  almost  every 
farmer  has  such  a  machine.  As  a  result  the  whole  social 
fabric  has  been  thrown  out  of  joint.  Almost  constantly, 
day  and  night,  one-fourth  of  our  population,  in  fine 
weather,  is  speeding  along  our  level  prairie  highways, 
while  the  other  three-fourths  are  excitedly  looking  on, 
waiting  to  attain  the  same  blissful  state  of  mobility  —  or 
automobility.  All  other  interests  are  lost  to  view.  Home 
life,  neighborhood  life,  rural  church  and  school,  every- 
thing is  forgotten.  The  only  thing  worth  seeking  in  this 
world  is  money  enough  to  keep  an  auto.  Fortunately, 
Mr.  Ford  has  come  to  the  relief  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
in  the  matter  of  price,  and  the  world  is  on  satisfactory 
wheels. 

Now  the  only  way  to  counteract  the  present  craze, 
the  only  way  to  save  the  republic,  as  it  seems  to  me,  from 


Culture  and  the  State 


53 


the  destruction  which  has,  in  all  time,  come  with  wealth, 
upon  every  nation,  so  far,  in  the  world,  is,  if  possible,  to 
maintain  in  our  population  a  leaven  of  culture,  a  suf- 
ficient number  of  men  and  women  who  have  found  for 
value  another  meaning  than  that  which  may  be  expressed 
in  money  or  autos.  He  was  a  wise  farmer  who  was  not 
so  much  concerned  in  buying  for  his  son  a  car,  as  he  was 
in  learning  where  it  would  take  the  lad  once  he  got  into 
it.  That  is  it,  that  is  it!  What  shall  be  the  end  of  the 
ride  ?  Of  what  possible  use  is  a  touring  car  if  it  takes  a 
man  to  destruction;  or  if,  through  ignorance,  the  unfor- 
tunate owner  have  no  slightest  inkling  where  he  is  going  1 
It  is  bad  enough  to  remain  at  home  and  be  ignorant ;  but 
to  come  suddenly  to  wealth,  to  have  means  to  see  the 
splendor  of  the  world,  to  pass  the  flowery  fields,  the  flow- 
ing hills,  the  treasured  cities,  as  in  a  flitting  car,  and  be 
all  unconscious  of  their  meaning  or  their  beauty,  to  have 
all  the  world  clamoring  for  recognition  and  still  to  sit  in 
a  limousine  and  be  ignorant  —  this  for  a  sentient  soul 
must  approach  the  lowest  level  of  personal  disgust  and 
disappointment.  There  is  no  use  disputing  it;  men  can 
never  in  this  world  be  satisfied  by  what  they  merely  have. 
The  moralist,  the  teacher,  the  preacher,  can  not  too 
much  proclaim  the  absolute  futility  of  wealth  to  meet  the 
individual  need,  the  needs  of  the  human  spirit.  They 
tell  us  all  the  time  that : 

"E'en  bliss  and  joy  that  may  beget 

A  sense  of  faith  in  things  we  see, 
Is  like  a  glorious  garden  set 
Down  by  the  sea. 


54  On  the  Campus 

"They  flourish  till  some  night  wind  blows 

The  swelling  tide  across  the  land, 
And  buries  tulip,  pink,  and  rose 
In  salt  and  sand. 

"Then  though  the  slow  retreating  tide 

Withdraw  its  foam  and  crawling  things, 
Yet  where  the  wandering  wave  hath  sighed 
No  fresh  bloom  springs." 

The  rich  man,  in  his  proverbial  search  for  health,  not  to 
say  joy,  drinks  his  cup  of  postum  and  eats  the  crumbs 
of  sorrow  which,  for  a  consideration,  thrifty  Battle  Creek 
prepares  for  his  abstemious  breakfast;  and  all  his  wealth 
avails  him  not.  It  is  trite :  but  look  at  this.  Only  a  few 
days  ago  a  few  score  aged  men  were  marching  along  our 
city  street.  Before  them  went  the  banner  of  the  repub- 
lic, and  each  bore  as  his  badge  of  honor  a  copper  button 
worth  a  penny.  But  the  wealth  of  Golconda  may  not 
buy  that  button  and  the  right  to  wear  it! 

Value,  value ;  do  we  not  begin  to  see  that  in  themselves 
dollars  have  no  value  ?  Did  you  ever  see  the  copper  but- 
ton set  with  diamonds  ?  How  should  in  such  a  place  the 
Kohinoor  lose  its  lustre,  and  the  copper  badge  blush  in 
sheer  humiliation  and  disgrace!  Only  intelligence,  ac- 
complishment, has  value,  and  culture  scorns  the  evidence 
of  wealth,  save  as  it  may  serve  the  purposes  of  wisdom. 
Wealth  can  never  be,  as  culture  always  may  be,  an  end 
unto  itself. 

The  fact  remains,  as  was  said  long  ago,  culture  aims 
to  "raise  the  intellectual  tone  of  society,  to  refine  public 
taste,  to  facilitate  the  exercise  of  political  power."  If 
our  colleges  and  universities  fail  to  impart  such  culture, 


Culture  and  the  State  55 

if  they  do  not  raise  the  tone  of  society,  or  refine  the 
public  taste,  if  they  do  not  contribute  all  the  time  to  the 
right  direction  of  our  democratic  power,  it  is  either  that 
they  have  departed  from  their  own  high  purpose,  or  that 
youth  have  ceased  to  recognize  the  excellency  of  that 
beauty  and  power  which  the  ages  have  approved.  It 
may  be,  as  some  would  show,  that  a  college  graduate  is 
sometimes  absolutely  illiterate.  If  so,  he  has  never  been 
a  student ;  he  entered  college  a  boor  or  street-gamin,  and 
has  proudly  held  his  own.  The  college  is,  however,  re- 
sponsible if  such  students  continue  to  cast  discredit  upon 
its  own  significance  and  its  solemn  high  emprise.  In  the 
Century  of  a  year  ago,  you  may  read :  ' '  We  all  slip  too 
easily  into  the  feeling  that  the  presence  of  these  [idle] 
students  in  the  college  community,  while  not  beneficial, 
to  be  sure,  is  at  least  not  positively  harmful.  A  more 
fatal  blunder  could  not  be  committed.  .  .  The  first 
and  crying  need  of  the  American  college  to-day  is  the 
ejection,  the  ruthless  ejection,  of  the  man  with  the  idle 
mind. ' ' x  The  author  means,  of  course,  the  incorrigibly 
idle.  At  a  certain  age  youth  is  naturally  otiose.  Our 
author,  I  suppose,  has  not  this  idea  in  view.  He  means 
the  boys  who  are  on  the  campus  for  social  purpose,  to 
pass  the  time ;  boys  who  have  no  intention  to  scholarship, 
who,  did  they  live  to  the  age  of  the  patriarchs,  would 
still  be  innocent,  entirely  innocent,  of  the  slightest  intel- 
lectual enthusiasm  or  endeavor. 

Finally,  to  go  back  once  more  to  botany,  the  culture 
of  our  most  perfected  plants  must  be  maintained ;  it  can 

i  "What  is  Wrong  with  the  College/'  Professor  Harold  C.  God- 
dard;  Century,  May,  1914. 


56  On  the  Campus 

never  cease.  If  we  cease  our  effort,  the  plant  reverts, 
goes  back  to  the  primitive  crudeness  of  its  wild  state. 

And  so  in  the  problems  of  the  soul.  Human  culture 
for  the  individual  concerns  not  youth  alone;  it  goes  on 
through  early  manhood,  and  is  maintained  in  latest  age, 
on  ever- widening  planes;  and  for  the  race  it  covers  all 
the  centuries!  Even  the  scholar  is  but  a  beginner,  as 
we  know ;  just  one  at  school ;  but  he  has  made  a  begin- 
ning, since  he  has  learned  to  love  all  knowledge,  and 
every  fine  and  noble  thing;  under  continued  favorable 
environment,  he  shall  come  at  length  to  all  the  fairest 
display  of  cultured  citizenship  that  his  generation  can 
afford. 

For  all  these  reasons  these  young  people  of  the  class  of 
1915  owe  very  much  to  Monmouth  College  —  much  more, 
indeed,  than  they  now  imagine.  You  shall  meet  your 
obligations  only  by  beginning,  at  this  good  beginning,  or 
commencement,  hour,  that  life  of  cultivated  manhood 
and  womanhood  which  illustrates  to  the  fullest  the  cul- 
ture for  which  your  college  stands,  and  by  a  service  to 
your  country  which  shall  be  at  once  devoted,  intelligent, 
and  continuous  as  life  itself. 

The  republic  is  in  straits  from  day  to  day.  To  para- 
phrase the  words  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  we  are  to  determine 
whether  a  government  founded  as  is  ours,  conducted  as 
is  ours,  conditioned  as  is  ours,  confronted  by  unheard-of 
problems,  social  problems,  industrial  problems,  political 
problems,  international  problems,  "can  long  endure." 
The  answer  to  that  question  is  in  large  measure  with  the 
class  of  1915,  the  country  over,  as  with  the  class  of  14 
and  16  and  all  the  rest.  To  men  and  women  of  culture 


Culture  and  the  State 


57 


must  be  committed  all  that  makes  for  human  weal,  to-day 
and  to-morrow  and  forever. 

Elihu  Boot,  a  graduate  of  Hamilton  College,  perhaps 
the  foremost  lawyer  and  ablest  statesman  of  the  country 
now,  recently,  as  we  know,  presided  at  a  great  constitu- 
tional convention,  to  rebuild  the  organic  law  of  six  mil- 
lion people  of  the  Empire  State.  At  one  session  an  in- 
vited officiating  clergyman  did  not  arrive,  and  Mr.  Root 
made  the  opening  prayer  himself: 

"Almighty  God,  guide  us  in  our  deliberations. 
Make  us  humble,  sincere,  and  devoted  to  the  public 
service.  Make  us  wise,  considerate  of  the  feelings, 
the  opinions,  and  the  rights  of  others.  Make  us  ef- 
fective and  useful  for  the  advancement  of  Thy  cause, 
of  peace  and  justice  and  liberty  in  the  world." 

Do  not  these,  the  event,  the  man,  the  language  of  peti- 
tion—  do  not  these  illustrate  in  every  highest  way  the 
service  which  culture,  the  culture  which  only  the  colleges 
afford  in  our  democracy,  must  ever  render  to  the  state  if 
the  republic  shall  abide? 


Young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  speaker  at  this  mo- 
ment recalls  a  scene  like  this,  when  on  a  summer  morn- 
ing long  ago  two-score  young  men  and  maidens  appeared 
upon  a  platform,  like  to  this,  to  receive  diplomas.  Much 
that  went  on  that  morning  he  has  forgotten;  but  the 
diploma,  the  parchment,  writ  in  stately  Latin  phrase  and 
bound  with  glistening  ribbon  bands,  all  delivered  by  the 
loving  hands  of  our  dearest  friend  and  best  well-wisher, 


58  On  the  Campus 

President  David  Alexander  Wallace, —  this  he  remem- 
bers well ! 

Since  that  happy  day  in  June  six  and  forty  years  have 
passed.  Time  upon  fair  young  faces  that  rise  in  memory 
from  that  far  summer  day  has  laid  his  gentle  but  trans- 
forming hand.  All  is  memory  now;  the  physical  form 
and  semblance  long  has  passed.  Each  bowed  that  day  — 
was  it  in  condescension?  —  as  his  name  was  called;  for 
one  moment  above  our  young  heads  the  hands  of  the 
great  president  were  stretched  out  in  final  benediction; 
and  then  we  strode  away,  each  to  a  destiny  all  un- 
dreamed, unknown  to  mortal  ken.  Out  into  the  dark  we 
stepped  on  that  June  day,  out  into  the  darkness,  each  on 
his  unknown  way;  but  we  knew  it  not.  The  sun  was 
shining  and  the  day  was  fair ;  but  the  way  —  how  had  we 
not  been  startled  could  we  have  foreseen  that  way ! 

Forty  and  six  years  have  passed.  Each  has  found  his 
way,  his  destiny,  in  some  part,  now  revealed.  Already 
many  sleep;  the  mission  of  life's  busy  day  fulfilled, 
whether  in  the  early  morning,  whether  at  mid-day, 
whether  in  the  evening  light,  where  some  of  us  still  lin- 
ger amid  the  ungarnered  harvest,  watching  where  the 
slanting  shadows  lengthen.  But  from  first  to  last,  through 
all  these  years,  not  one  of  us  has  failed  to  cherish  as  his 
ideal,  potent  and  precious,  the  pattern  of  manhood  here 
revealed,  while  Wallace,  Young,  Hutchinson,  Wilson,  and 
Black  ministered  in  full  devotion  of  life's  self-sacrifice 
before  the  flaming  altar  of  eternal  truth.  Here  and  now 
permit  me  to  lay  before  that  altar  the  belated  tribute  of 
my  sincere  appreciation. 

That  high  ministry  has  wholly  passed  to  other  hands. 


Culture  and  the  State  59 

You  younger  people  know  only  the  tradition  of  honored 
names;  but  the  ideals  remain,  clear,  beautiful,  glorious 
as  of  old.  These  shall  not  change.  The  decades  shall 
come  and  go,  another  half-century  shall  speed  its  silent 
way,  and  one  of  you  shall  stand  here  perchance  to  tell 
for  the  class  of  1915  the  doing  of  life's  little  day.  May 
it  then  be  his  to  find  in  these  same  old  ideals  not  only  his 
own  exceeding  rich  reward,  but  the  promise  of  benedic- 
tion to  his  country  in  culture  that  shall  still  survive  to 
serve  the  state  in  centuries  yet  to  be ! 


THE  TEACHER  AND  THE  STATE 

All  lacking  in  recognition  indeed  your  speaker  might 
well  be  esteemed,  did  he  not  hasten  in  his  earliest  sen- 
tence to  express  appreciation  of  his  privilege  in  this  for- 
tunate hour.  To  appear  thus  before  some  hundreds  of 
enthusiastic  young  people,  all  expectant  of  honor  and 
congratulation,  might  well  stir  the  sympathy  of  any  who 
would  essay,  by  uttered  speech,  to  meet  the  thoughts  of 
his  fellow-men.  There  is  really  nowhere  in  the  free  life 
of  this  commonwealth  anything  finer  than  the  scene  be- 
fore us  this  morning ;  whether  we  contemplate  the  beauty 
of  the  immediate  spectacle,  whether  we  estimate  the  sig- 
nificance of  this  ceremony,  or  whether,  more  keenly  an- 
alytic, we  go  behind  the  present  and  see  in  all  this  the 
culmination  of  varied  effort,  of  days  and  weeks  of  toil. 

This  is  the  time  for  gratulation;  weightier  matters,  I 
am  advised,  may  now  for  this  day,  at  least,  be  laid  aside. 
Comenius  and  Pestalozzi,  Herbart  and  Montessori,  Hegel 
and  Schleiermacher,  and  all  the  rest  may  be  forgotten. 
To-day  is  to-day,  and  all  its  windows  open  to  the  future. 
Needless  to  say,  that  the  future,  for  this  class  of  1914,  is 
very  bright.  This  is  Iowa;  white  clouds  only  sweep 
slowly  through  azure  deeps,  flowers  deck  all  the  land- 
scapes, and  the  sunlight  lies  upon  the  rising  harvests. 
And  yet,  were  we  called  upon  to  give  reasons  for  such 
optimism  as  at  this  moment  here  prevails,  such  confi- 
dence, such  security  of  mind,  we  might  find  ourselves,  as 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  61 

usual,  embarrassed  for  reply.  We  might  begin  to  think 
again  of  examinations,  happily  now  forever  past;  and 
only  at  the  last  might  we  fall  back  upon  the  general 
buoyancy  of  youth  and  find  there,  perhaps,  the  most  ob- 
vious reason  why,  for  us  to-day,  the  fields  and  skies  are 
fair. 

This  is  commencement.  But  in  one  sense  it  is  differ- 
ent from  the  thousand  similar  events  which  everywhere 
for  school  and  college  divide  with  the  roses  the  glory  of 
this  lovely  month  of  June.  In  the  college  world,  gener- 
ally, men  come  up  to  claim  diplomas,  position  among  ed- 
ucated people;  here,  not  educated  only  are  these  young 
people,  but  educators;  informed  indeed,  but  ready  to 
share  their  knowledge  instantly  on  demand ;  the  day,  the 
hour,  the  ceremony  significant  of  much.  Here  is  a  double 
relation ;  past  and  future,  to  be  sure,  but  unusual  in  that 
past  and  future  are  thus  in  singular  fashion  joined. 
Men  and  women  who  have  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of 
the  commonwealth  now  go  forth  in  peculiar  sense,  to 
serve  it. 

Your  speaker  has  no  thought  to  be  intrusive;  he  is 
merely  an  onlooker  in  this  fascinating  scene.  But,  if  you 
please,  he  may  attempt  to  answer  for  you  the  significance 
of  the  day  by  discussing  briefly  this  double  relation  of 
the  teacher  and  the  state,  receiving  and  giving. 

Education  is  said  to  be  a  great,  but  very  ordinary, 
means  to  a  great,  but  very  ordinary,  end.  It  is  all  so 
ordinary  that  we  forget  sometimes  the  mystery  that  it 
holds.  We  are  richer  to-day;  but  what  is  our  added 
wealth?  We  are  happier;  wherein  our  blessedness  ac- 
quired? We  are  quicker  and  smarter;  of  what  kind  is 


62  On  the  Campus 

our  accumulated  wisdom  ?  What  have  we  gained  ?  What 
have  we  really  received? 

In  the  first  place,  none  of  us,  I  think,  will  look  back 
over  the  years  and  attempt  to  find  any  complete  answer 
to  such  questions  in  tasks  actually  or  perfunctorily  ac- 
complished. There  are  always  students  who  find  satis- 
faction in  the  completion  from  day  to  day  of  lessons  for- 
mally assigned.  I  am  not  sure  that  they  are  wholly  to 
blame.  I  am  reminded  that  teachers  themselves  some- 
times seem  to  do  the  same  thing.  For  admission  to  Har- 
vard, for  example,  so  many  books,  so  many  lines,  so  many 
problems  are  required.  Lessons  are  assigned  and  lessons 
heard,  not  to  say  recited.  Small  wonder  if  sometimes 
we  estimate  our  finished  work  by  such  a  scale !  It  is  like 
climbing  stairs.  We  count  the  number  of  treads  in  our 
ascent,  never  heeding  to  what  they  lead,  whether  to  new 
prospect  or  new  vision,  or  to  vision  of  any  sort  at  all. 

Now,  of  course  this  kind  of  work  is  all  very  necessary. 
To  reach  a  summit,  stairs  are  exceedingly  convenient 
things.  But  in  any  case,  how  soon  the  stairway  may  be 
forgotten;  especially  if  we  are  to  live  upon  the  heights. 
No  doubt  all  work  attempted  in  a  school  like  this,  has  for 
its  object  mastery,  in  so  far,  of  the  subjects  we  attempt. 
If  we  expect  to  teach,  of  course  we  are  expected  also  to 
remember,  at  least,  the  principal  facts  and  data  of  our 
subjects.  We  can  never  expect  to  enjoy  our  rightful 
influence  in  our  work,  or  really  to  count  for  the  most  in 
this  world,  unless  we  are  recognized  as  authority  in  some- 
thing, somewhere. 

And  yet,  in  all  that  we  have  done,  we  are,  I  hope,  per- 
fectly aware  that  our  great  gain  is  not  in  fact  and  datum, 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  63 

not  in  things  that  are  recorded  by  any  generous  regis- 
trar, but  in  those  things  so  hard  to  classify  or  name,  re- 
corded in  some  strange  way  in  the  book  of  experience,  in 
the  tapestry  of  each  human  life.  You  know  by  this  time, 
I  am  sure,  that  it  is  not  so  much  the  subject,  but  the  ef- 
fect, that  you  have  won.  Latin,  for  instance,  you  have 
studied ;  but  it  is  not  in  the  amount  of  actual  knowledge 
of  great  Caesar's  speech  that  you  rejoice  to-day.  Even 
now  that  hard-earned  taste  of  ancient  or  medieval  lore 
begins  to  die  upon  the  palate,  and  promises  soon  to  van- 
ish quite,  unless  sedulously  kept  up,  and  to  leave  but  a 
lingering  reminiscence ;  and  yet,  —  suppose  that  by  some 
finest  intellectual  telepathy  we  could  stretch  a  viewless 
wire  back  across  the  centuries  as  we  stretch  threads  of 
copper  across  the  valleys.  Take  up  the  receiver  and  let 
the  Roman  speak;  you  could  hardly  understand  him. 
At  this  end  of  the  line  his  Latin  sounds  Italian,  French, 
Spanish,  Roumanian,  even.  Nothing  in  it  but  has 
changed  "into  something  rich  and  strange;"  but  you 
have  added  two  thousand  years  to  the  compass  of  your 
life,  and  all  the  history  of  modern  civilization  lies  be- 
tween ;  this  you  have  gained !  You  may  not  understand 
Caesar,  but  you  do  understand  the  outcome  of  Caesar's 
life. 

German,  too,  you  have  attempted ;  and  the  most  philo- 
sophic tongue  now  spoken  among  men  has  spread  itself 
before  you.  You  have  caught  some  glimpses  of  it;  but, 
perplexed  by  the  genders,  perhaps,  of  things  inanimate, 
or  overwhelmed  by  the  genius  that  can  keep  in  mind  the 
unfinished  first  word  of  a  sentence,  going  on,  through 
phrase  after  phrase,  only  at  length  to  find  completion  in 


64  On  the  Campus 

some  insignificant  closing  particle,  and  thus  to  attain  in 
unbroken  sphere  a  completely  uttered  thought,  —  over- 
whelmed by  this,  you  have  perhaps  been  content  to  carry 
hither  only  some  lyric  remnants,  bits  of  haunting  verse 
that  immortalize  Heine  or  Goethe;  although  perhaps 
even  here  the  author  is  for  you  merely  an  unburied 
shade.  But  if  you  have  studied  your  German  rightly, 
as  no  doubt  you  have,  at  the  mere  word  the  torches  flare 
again  against  the  night  of  the  old  Teutobergerwald ;  the 
German  knights  ride  along  the  Baltic  sands;  castles  rise 
and  are  mirrored  in  the  green  waters  of  the  sunny 
Rhine ;  the  Hohenzollerns  march  to  empire,  as  Frederick 
Second  breaks  the  power  of  foolish  France,  gives  Canada 
to  English  speech,  and  makes  possible  this  commence- 
ment at  Cedar  Falls!  That  is  what  you  have  found  in 
German ! 

Mathematics,  physics  have  had  their  turn ;  and  at  this 
moment,  most  of  your  acquisitions  lie  in  the  fourth 
dimension  of  space.  Pedagogy  and  even  psychology  — 
boldest  attempt  to  plat  easy  avenues  to  the  conquest  of 
man's  soul  —  even  these  no  longer  stand  out  with  that 
sharpness  which  their  uttered  principles  did  once  sug- 
gest. Both  perception  and  apperception  have  become, 
possibly,  eoxjeption,  if  not  deception;  and  yet  —  you 
know  how  to  teach.  Why?  Because  you  have  seen  ex- 
perienced, gifted  teachers  teach ;  and,  more,  you  are  con- 
fident, not  of  psychology,  but  of  yourself;  and  success 
comes  with  the  dawning  of  the  day.  You  have  studied 
natural  science.  Was  it  botany,  geology,  zoology?  You 
may  not  now  recall ;  but  as  you  look  out  of  the  window 
this  morning  the  world  looks  different  indeed ;  trees  and 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  65 

herbs  are  marshalled  in  a  procession  that  extends  into 
the  past  so  far,  that  only  some  concept  of  life's  begin- 
ning can  ever  again  satisfy  your  dreaming  vision.  You 
have  added  to  your  own  life  the  millions  of  years  that 
lie  behind  us. 

In  fact,  all  along  the  lines  of  studied  effort,  if  you  are 
really  normal  students,  I  believe  you  are  ready  to  admit 
that,  while  you  have  been  studying  all  these  things,  you 
have  not  been  limited  by  what  you  saw  or  heard,  but 
your  minds  have  far  outrun  the  printed  page,  the  speak- 
er's tone,  the  measured  hour  or  day  or  year,  and  you  are 
away  to  claim  an  empire  all  your  own,  whose  boundaries 
are  the  fields  of  time ! 

I  am  sure  I  shall  not  be  here  misunderstood.  From 
what  I  have  said,  you  realize  that  I  am  not  belittling  the 
idea  or  value  of  exact  information.  I  beg  you  to  con- 
sider that,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning,  real  efficiency  any- 
where is  conditioned  upon  accuracy  and  breadth  of 
knowledge.  I  am  referring  merely  to  the  ordinary  ex- 
perience of  the  ordinary  student  leaving  an  ordinary 
college,  or  even  a  teachers'  college.  All  exercises  are  but 
means.  The  value  of  the  real  outcome  must  be  found  in 
something  else  than  mere  numbered  page,  or  treasured 
fact,  however  precious  in  itself.  Only  in  yourself  is  the 
reward  of  a  scholar's  labor,  only  in  experience  shall  such 
expenditure  as  his  be  justified. 

You  are  not  linguists,  but  you  know  what  language- 
study  means,  how  and  why  it  is  pursued.  You  are  not 
mathematicians,  but  you  appreciate  the  efforts  of  those 
who  are.  You  are  not  men  and  women  of  letters,  but 
you  know  in  what  direction  lie  the  flowery  fields  of  lit- 


66  On  the  Campus 

erature,  even  if  as  yet  you  own  not  one!  Dr.  McCosh, 
president  of  Princeton  College,  once  when  an  old  man 
read  in  chapel  that  famous  thirteenth  chapter  of  first 
Corinthians,  which  contains  the  phrase,  "For  we  know 
in  part" — .  He  stopped  and  turned  upon  his  audience 
that  scholarly  face,  lit  up  with  wonderful  light  and 
crowned  with  the  crown  of  age ;  ' '  For  we  know  in  part, ' ' 
he  said.  ' '  But  we  know ! ' '  Now  you  have  it !  All  these 
days,  these  years,  we  have  been  learning,  and  now  at  last 
we  find  as  a  result  that  we  know,  indeed;  and  —  we 
know  in  part  only.  But  the  eyes  of  our  understandings 
have  been  opened;  whereas  we  were  blind,  now  we  see, 
we  know  I  We  have  been  learning ;  yea,  verily :  we  have 
been  learning  to  know ! 

But  this  matter  of  receptive  education  goes  farther 
still,  means  more  than  anything  I  have  so  far  suggested 
or  described.  Permit  me  to  illustrate  once  more : 

As  You  Like  It  is  your  favorite  play,  the  sweetest, 
purest,  most  delightful  piece  of  human  fancy  ever  writ- 
ten. Touchstone,  as  you  remember,  is  a  clown,  but  wise 
and  witty ;  only  by  profession,  a  fool.  The  shepherd  is 
talking  with  Touchstone : 

"How  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  Master  Touchstone f " 
'  *  In  respect  it  is  solitary    ...    in  the  fields,  it  pleaseth 
me  well.     .     .     Hast  thou   any   philosophy   in  thee,   Shep- 
herd!" 

Then  the  shepherd  goes  on: 

"No  more  but  that  I  know  the  more  one  sickens,  the 
worse  at  ease  he  is;  that  the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet, 
and  fire  to  burn;  that  good  pasture  makes  fat  sheep, 
and  that  a  great  cause  of  the  night  is  lack  of  the  sun." 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  67 

Now  this  is  the  outcome  of  the  shepherd's  experience; 
this  is  his  attitude  of  mind,  his  philosophy.  Professor 
James  says,  a  man's  philosophy  is  the  most  interesting 
thing  about  him.  And  here  the  shepherd,  as  each  of  us, 
has  his  philosophy,  his  sense  of  the  world,  his  estimate  of 
realities,  of  values ;  he  has  his  way  of  looking  at  things ; 
he  is  an  optimist,  a  pessimist,  or  what  not;  he  is  dis- 
couraged or  hopeful;  and  this  is  what  we  get  from  our 
contact  with  the  things  about  us,  with  books,  and  teach- 
ers, and  classes.  From  the  atmosphere  of  this  fine- 
builded  hilltop  on  the  prairie,  from  all  our  study,  this 
alone  we  gain,  this  that  abides.  You  came  here  to  learn 
to  be  teachers,  builders  for  the  state,  not  to  study  arith- 
metic; you  could  do  that  anywhere;  numbers  may  carry 
magic,  as  you  begin  to  see,  and  transcend  arithmetic ;  not 
grammar,  only,  but  the  grammar,  the  correct  ordering  of 
human  life;  you  came  for  personal  culture,  for  inspira- 
tion, for  intellectual  direction,  for  spiritual  power,  for  a 
new  vision  of  this  world,  for  an  attitude  of  mind :  ' '  Hast 
thou  any  philosophy  in  thee,"  teacher? 

But  not  yet  have  I  closed  my  briefest  inventory  of 
your  winning,  here  beneath  the  elms,  in  these  lovely  as- 
sociations; not  yet.  At  least  two  more  entries  must  be 
made  to  the  credit  side  of  your  account.  The  first  rises 
directly  from  the  condition  I  have  just  described.  It  is 
an  asset  even  more  valuable  than  that  attitude  of  mind 
which  seems  so  all-important  now.  It  is  an  acquisition 
that  others,  fortunately  indeed,  recognize  better  than  we 
ever  do  ourselves ;  perhaps  in  ourselves  we  know  it  never ; 
therefore  I  may  tell  it.  I  mean  now  that  wondrous  abil- 
ity which  God  gives  a  man,  of  becoming  better  than  he 


68  On  the  Campus 

knows !  The  ability  to  serve  his  fellow-men  unconscious- 
ly, and  therefore  more  potently  and  more  beautifully 
than  ever  will  be  told.  These  teachers  of  yours  have 
that  gift.  You  know  it;  they  do  not.  You  have  felt  it 
many  a  time  and  so  share  it ;  you  shall  feel  it  yet  again. 
You  may  not  describe  it ;  you  may  not  seek  it ;  it  is  yours ; 
it  is  the  bloom  of  the  fruit;  it  is  the  iridescence  of  the 
plume ;  it  is  the  luminous  brilliance  of  the  wave ;  it  is  the 
blaze  of  the  opal;  the  silent,  unspoken,  all-potent  influ- 
ence of  each  noble  human  soul ! 

It  is  said  that  Robert  Moffatt,  the  pioneer  Scotch 
teacher  in  South  Africa,  was  impressed  in  early  man- 
hood with  the  idea  that,  could  he  only  tell  his  story,  all 
Africa  would  heed.  In  his  old  age,  it  is  said  that  he 
thought  of  his  life  as  a  failure.  But  in  both  cases  he  was 
much  mistaken.  It  is  true  that  Africa  did  not  wholly 
listen ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  also  true  that  South 
Africa  to-day  is  English,  and  in  the  line  of  all  future 
social  progress. 

"In  the  glory  of  youth  the  young  man  sped 

Forth  from  his  father's  door; 
'They  will  heed,'  he  cried,  'to  the  spoken  word 
For  the  great  world  rolls  before.' 

"In  the  weakness  of  age  an  old  man  crept 

Back  to  his  father's  door; 
'I  have  uttered  my  word  and  none  has  heard, 
And  the  great  world  rolls  as  before.'  " 

No:  don't  believe  it!  Life  is  forever  more  than  a 
spoken  word !  Moffatt  lives,  and  his  work  abides,  though 
he  realized  never,  as  he  thought,  the  expectation  of  his 


The  Teacher  and  the  State 


69 


plans.  Moffatt's  son-in-law  was  David  Livingston!  and 
David  Livingston  was  followed  by  Cecil  Rhodes ! 

There  is  still  one  other  asset  which  is  yours  this  morn- 
ing, and  must  never  be  overlooked  nor  forgotten  in  any 
such  review  as  that  we  are  making  here  and  now.  This 
last  acquisition  I  here  mention  is  the  wonderful  circle  of 
friendship  into  which  you  have  been  privileged  to  come, 
and  in  which  hereafter  you  shall  have  abiding  place. 
The  united  faculty  and  alumni  of  this  college  constitute 
a  fraternity,  a  sodality,  whose  warmth  and  loyalty  are  of 
never- to-be-estimated  importance  and  value  to  every  man 
id  to  every  woman  privileged  to  enter  the  charmed 
drcle.  Here  is  no  bond  of  wealth,  of  caste,  of  privilege, 
)f  religion,  even ;  but  nevertheless  an  allegiance  that  shall 
lominate  all  future  years.  You  young  people,  on  this 
dr  June  morning,  have  no  slightest  idea  how  strong 
ire  the  bonds  of  such  affection ;  and  how  hereafter  with 

;reasing  years,  in  spite  of  yourselves,  in  spite  of  op- 
position, in  spite  of  mishap,  discouragement,  and  ap- 
parent failure  even,  the  spirit  and  inspiration,  the  united 
courage  of  these  associations,  will  work  miracles  and 
carry  you  out  and  forward  to  a  life  of  rich  accomplish- 
ment, of  valiant  service  in  this  world. 

Let  us  sum  it  all  up:  Scholarship,  knowledge,  learn- 
ing—  these  you  have  in  part;  mental  attitude,  disposi- 
tion, philosophy  of  the  world,  views  of  duty,  character 
in  short,  felt  but  not  seen  of  men  —  these  you  have  in 
full;  and  then,  behind  all  these,  the  organization  and 
sympathy  and  mutual  allegiance,  the  bond  of  common 
affection  and  purpose  of  this  great  college;  such  make 


70  On  the  Campus 

for  you  this  morning  memorable  forever,  the  commence- 
ment, the  beginning  of  life  beautiful  forevermore. 

But  now,  having  thus  sketched  the  outcome  of  past 
experience,  let  us  turn  for  a  little  in  the  other  direction, 
and  see  how  we  can  use  the  gifts  we  have  thus  acquired. 

This,  at  first  blush,  looks  easy :  we  are  teachers ;  all  we 
have  to  do  is  to  teach ;  and  what  is  more,  if  we  teach  in 
public  schools,  as  most  of  us  expect  to  do,  custom  has  pre- 
scribed what  we  shall  teach:  reading,  arithmetic,  gram- 
mar, history,  geography,  and  such  things.  To  this  the 
Iowa  statutes  have  sagely  added  physiology  and  music; 
and  after  1915,  agriculture,  manual  training,  and  domes- 
tic science  seem  to  be  "  indicated, "  as  the  homeopathist 
might  say. 

This  all  looks  simple  enough ;  but  if  the  argument  just 
concluded  has  significance  at  all,  it  is  plain  that  the 
province  of  a  teacher  in  our  public  schools  is  just  as 
much  wider  than  any  mere  list  of  subjects,  as  his  train- 
ing here  has  transcended  the  mere  exercises  of  the  class 
room.  I  may  not  attempt  to  discuss  all  that  the  situation 
thus  suggests.  Three  points  only  would  I  set  in  order, 
as  this  morning  we  look  out  on  the  open  fields  of  a  teach- 
er's opportunity,  —  first,  his  work  in  the  school  room; 
second,  his  work  for  people  outside  the  school  room ;  and 
third,  his  work  for  himself. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  no  service  in  the  school  room 
can  be  considered  adequate  which  has  not  constant  re- 
spect to  the  purpose  which  the  commonwealth  has  in 
view  in  paying  for  the  service  rendered.  The  Republic 
looks  out  over  the  unbridled  hosts  of  the  democracy,  mil- 


The  Teacher  and  the  State 


lions  of  men  swept  by  all  the  strenuous  fierceness  of  hu- 
man greed,  human  ambition,  human  passions;  she  reads 
the  fate  of  the  republics  of  the  past,  and  in  justifiable 
alarm  she  summons  her  wise  men ;  what  shall  I  do  ?  How 
shall  I  control  a  multitude  so  diverse,  so  fierce,  so  heed- 
less, that  I  may  live  and  not  die?  And  the  wise  men 
give  answer,  " Teach  the  children;  make  men  intelligent 
and  righteous,  and  you  shall  live  and  not  die. ' '  And  the 
great  Republic  and  each  commonwealth  answers  —  "Lo, 
here  are  my  treasures ;  spend  and  spare  not ;  do  your  ut- 
most that  my  citizens  may  be  intelligent  and  wise,  and  I 
shall  never  reckon  the  cost,  that  the  Republic  may  live 
and  not  die."  And  the  wise  men  go  forth,  and  the 
school  houses  rise  on  every  hill-top,  and  in  every  valley, 
on  every  plain,  in  every  wood,  from  ocean  to  ocean ;  and 
the  teachers  enter  in!  Was  there  ever  such  a  spectacle 
in  the  history  of  this  world  recorded  in  the  book  of  time ; 
a  great  people  rising  to  educate  themselves!  Nobody 
counts  the  money,  nobody  mentions  the  cost ;  the  laborer 
gives  his  penny,  the  millionaire  his  thousands,  his  mil- 
lions; everybody  votes  "aye,"  that  the  Republic,  the 
commonwealth,  may  live  and  not  die !  The  school  house 
stands  with  open  door,  and  the  teacher  enters  in! 

And  now  the  children  begin  to  gather:  you  may  see 
them  marching,  young  men  and  maidens,  little  children, 
the  boys  and  the  girls ;  it  is  autumn ;  the  cool  air  of  morn- 
ing freshens  their  youthful  faces,  and  the  tinted  leaves 
are  rustling  about  their  willing  feet. 

The  school  room  doors  stand  open  wide  and  the  hosts 
of  the  Republic  enter  in!  The  doors  are  shut,  and  the 
teacher  stands  in  presence  of  her  duty.  She  is  set  to 


72  On  the  Campus 

teach  reading  and  writing  and  arithmetic.  Yes,  yes! 
And  then  she  begins  to  read,  "that  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people  shall  not  perish 
from  the  earth ! ' '  Who  wrote  that  ?  Was  he  rich  ?  Did 
he  have  money  and  stocks  and  houses  and  farms?  Did 
he  have  castles  in  Europe  and  dwellings  in  California? 
Oh,  no;  he  was  poor;  so  poor  that  when  a  boy  he  could 
not  go  to  school,  but  lay  on  the  floor  in  the  light  of  a 
fire-place  in  a  prairie  cabin,  and  wrought  out  his  arith- 
metic on  the  smooth  surface  of  a  wooden  shovel,  polished 
in  the  winnowed  grain  at  the  threshing  floor  where  by 
day  he  toiled.  The  children  learn  his  name.  They  read 
the  story  of  fifty  years  ago.  They  see  old  men  moving 
about  the  streets,  a  copper  badge  their  only  decoration. 
Can  they  believe  it  that  these  were  young  once,  as  are 
they;  that  boys  heard  the  voice  of  Abraham  Lincoln; 
that  thousands  rose  to  his  summons,  heard  no  call  to 
wealth;  heard  but  the  voice  of  duty;  disappeared  in 
Southern  forests  and  along  the  swampy,  sedgy  rivers, 
and  came  back  no  more?  These  remain  forever  young, 
and  the  teacher  reads  again : 

"Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow! 

For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack: 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row 
With  ever -youthful  brows  that  nobler  show; 

We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track." 

Who  wrote  that  ?  Was  he  rich  ?  Was  he  great  ?  Did 
he  have  castles  in  Europe  and  palaces  in  New  York? 
Ah,  no,  he  was  poor;  poor  as  men  count  wealth  to-day, 
but  rich,  rich,  as  you  see,  in  all  nobler  thoughts  and  ways. 

Even  so  the  Republic  shall  be  safe.     That  teacher  is 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  73 

teaching  reading ;  she  is  teaching  literature.  She  has  set 
up  a  new  standard ;  and  presently  upon  the  minds  of  the 
young  people  there  begins  to  dawn  a  sense  of  values  that 
are  real,  that  shine  and  ring  through  the  years,  and  that 
can  not  be  measured  by  all  the  silver  coin  of  the  realm, 
though  silver  were  free  as  ever  benevolent  Mr.  Bryan 
could  wish  it,  and  came  in  showers  upon  the  pavement. 

Such  visions  of  value  may  not  come  in  a  day,  though 
sometimes  they  do;  sometimes  the  lesson  of  a  day  lasts 
for  fifty  years. 

But  if  not  in  a  day,  yet  during  the  years  through 
which  American  children  are  moving  forward  to  young 
manhood  and  womanhood,  through  the  fair  fields  of  our 
sweet,  pure  literature,  through  our  more  than  romantic, 
heroic,  and  generally  noble  history,  through  the  fascina- 
tions of  physical  science,  you  may  lead  them  to  such  an 
estimate  of  things  really  abiding,  and  satisfying,  and 
worth  while  in  this  world,  that  by  and  by  you  have  a 
whole  community  around  you  devoted  to  ideals  the  best 
that  men  know ;  and  by  and  by  you  have  a  generation  of 
men  loving  cleanness  and  simplicity  and  beauty ;  wisdom 
shall  be  justified  of  her  children,  and  the  commonwealth 
shall  live  and  not  die ! 

On  and  after  January  1,  1915,  every  one  who  teaches 
in  our  Iowa  public  schools  must  pass  an  examination  in 
agriculture,  manual  training,  and  domestic  science.  But 
let  us  not  err.  Even  here  we  seek  not  to  develop  intel- 
ligence in  the  ordinary  conduct  of  our  familiar  agricul- 
tural operations  alone;  it  is  not  only  desired  that  a 
teacher  be  able  to  know  a  ''hawk  from  a  handsaw,"  a 
cart  from  a  plow,  a  grain  of  barley  from  a  grain  of 


74  On  the  Campus 

wheat,  a  cow  from  a  cabbage ;  but  we  seek  in  fact  some- 
thing far  different  from  this.  We  would  develop  in  the 
minds  of  young  people  a  love  for  rural  scenes  and  things, 
gladness  in  the  health  and  beauty  of  country  life,  the 
nobility  and  independence  of  its  industries,  contentment 
and  joy  in  the  most  necessary,  most  ancient,  and  uni- 
versal employment  of  'the  race.  In  other  words,  we 
seek  again  a  philosophy,  an  attitude  of  mind  for  all  our 
people,  at  once  patriotic,  satisfying,  and  sane  in  every 
way. 

Such  studies,  therefore,  shall  not  interfere  with  the 
ordinary  cultural  studies  of  our  schools.  I  think  I  could 
show  an  intelligent  boy  in  a  few  hours  how  to  meet  all 
the  needs  of  a  Jersey  cow  —  and  she  is  as  finicky  as  the 
Duchess  of  Daisydown  —  but,  all  that  the  schools  can 
teach,  and  all  that  the  government  can  do,  and  all  that 
life  may  bring  forth,  may  one  day  still  be  inadequate, 
insufficient  wholly,  to  meet  the  crying  loneliness  of  that 
same  boy's  throbbing,  longing  heart! 

Most  of  the  educational  criticism  of  to-day  is  the  most 
superficial  sort  of  pedantry.  We  are  told  that  we  must 
fit  boys  and  girls  for  practical  work,  that  the  knowledge 
of  to-day  is  worth  all  the  lore  of  the  past.  In  California, 
two  years  since,  one  of  these  fine  critics  demonstrated 
that  high  school  students  knew  more  of  Roman  history 
than  of  happenings  reported  in  the  journals  of  San 
Francisco,  and  immediately  rushed  out  with  the  appeal, 
"Are  our  American  schools  set  to  make  Roman  citi- 
zens?" Had  he  turned  his  investigation  the  other  way 
around,  he  had  no  doubt  discovered  that  the  loafers  and 
worthless  idlers  of  California  cities  know  more  of  the 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  75 

prize-fights,  police  courts,  and  Barbary  Coasts  of  San 
Francisco  —  the  contents  of  San  Francisco  newspapers 
—  than  do  the  boys  and  girls  of  the  high  school,  whose 
reading  has  been  otherwise  directed  and  to  whom  we  are 
committing  year  by  year  the  destinies  of  the  republic. 

All  such  criticism  is  based  upon  an  extremely  narrow 
view  of  what  is  practical.  If  that  only  is  practical  which 
makes  for  toil  and  for  the  necessities  of  daily  living,  if 
the  needs  of  the  boy  and  of  the  Jersey  cow  lie  thus  in 
the  same  direction;  then  our  problems  of  education  be- 
come simplified  indeed.  Men  were  once  reckoned  and 
called  cattle ;  but  it  did  not  work.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion disposed  forever  of  that  idea.  But  any  educational 
theory  which  fails  to  take  account  of  humanity  in  man, 
which  fails  to  reach  human  love  and  hope  and  aspira- 
tion, which  fails  to  make  dominant  the  best  that  mankind 
has  thought  and  wrought,  which  fails  to  recognize  the 
light  that  is  brighter  than  the  arc,  the  light  tha,t  lit  that 
useful  flame,  but  shall  burn  long  after  every  carbon 
point  shall  blacken  in  the  glow  of  day  —  any  criticism 
of  any  less  scope  than  this  is  futile,  worthless,  meriting 
consideration  only  as  benevolence  might  seek  to  save  the 
critic  himself.  "I  saw  an  angel  standing  in  the  sun!" 
says  the  man  of  the  Revelations.  The  old  Scotch  preacher 
read  it  and  exclaimed,  "Ye  can  do  little  wi'  that  man 
wha  has  seen  an  angel  stan'in'  in  the  sun,"  and  he 
knew  whereof  he  spoke.  The  light  of  intelligence  is 
brighter  than  the  sun.  We  know  all  about  that  luminous 
sphere ;  and  even  discount  his  radiance,  as  compared  with 
that  of  other  stars,  and  boldly  say  at  last  that  "one  star 
differeth  from  another  star  in  glory. '  ' 


76  On  the  Campus 

And  yet  men  say  that  only  that  education  is  practical 
which  teaches  a  boy  to  compute  interest,  to  manage  a 
steam-engine  or  a  linotype  machine,  to  build  a  barn  for 
the  Jersey  cow,  or  a  palace  for  her  owner. 

The  story  is  told  of  a  young  man  and  his  wife,  who 
stood  on  a  tower  in  Florence.  They  looked  on  the  valley 
of  the  Arno.  They  were  Americans ;  possibly  from  Iowa. 
They  saw  never  such  a  view:  mountain  and  plain  and 
river,  and  fertile  field,  garden  and  orchard,  forest  and 
city  and  palace: 

"Here,  snatching  up  a  bit  of  coal, 
A  young  creator  flung  a  soul 
Into  a  sketch  upon  the  wall 
Where  still  you  see  the  vital  scrawl: 
It  was  four  centuries  ago, — 
The  boy 's  name,  Michel  Angelo. 

Caiano,  where  for  solace  went 
Lorenzo,  the  Magnificent; 
Careggi,  where  he  turned  aside 
From  the  Dominican,  and  died; 
Arcetri,  whence  the  unblinded  eyes 
Of  Galileo  swept  the  skies. 

Of  Vallombrosa,  'Etrurian  shades 
High  over-arched,'  whence  Milton  took 
That  image  of  the  leaf-strown  brook" — 1 

they  even  caught  a  glimpse.  They  saw  all  this.  They 
had  all  that  wealth  could  furnish ;  but  they  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  and  said,  "How  fine  it  would  be  if  we 
only  knew  anything!"  They  knew  many  things,  but 

i  From  a  poem,  La  Capponcina,  an  Epistle  to  Friends,  by  Mel- 
ville B.  Anderson,  privately  printed,  Christmas,  1912. 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  77 

they  lacked  that  particular  knowledge  our  California 
critic  would  despise;  they  lacked  intelligence.  It  was 
not  that  they  knew  no  Italian  or  Latin,  or  anything  ab- 
struse; but  simply  that  they  did  not  know  the  meaning 
of  Florence;  not  even  where  to  find  the  needed  informa- 
tion; they  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  their  time,  the 
history  of  the  world.  They  had  missed  entirely  intel- 
lectual satisfaction,  intellectual  joy.  The  only  pleasure 
that  wealth  can  not  buy;  only  the  teacher  can  bring  us 
in  sight  of  illumination  such  as  this. 

But  in  the  second  place  your  opportunity  lies  also 
outside  the  school  room. 

A  former  president  of  the  University  of  Illinois,  not 
long  ago,  as  reported,  gave  to  a  graduating  class  this 
advice :  ' '  Keep  step  with  the  procession.  It  is  a  pretty 
good  crowd,  and  it  is  generally  moving  in  the  right 
direction.  Act  with  the  party;  yell  for  the  ticket;  and 
whoop  it  up  for  the  flag ! ' ' 

Dr.  Draper  was  a  very  eminent  man,  commissioner  of 
education  for  the  state  of  New  York.  He  no  doubt  was  a 
thoroughly  patriotic  and  useful  man ;  but  in  this  speech 
we  can  not  agree  with  him  at  all.  To  take  such  an  atti- 
tude is  virtually  to  throw  to  the  winds  on  the  streets 
every  ideal  we  set  up  in  the  school.  Dr.  Draper's  inten- 
tion was  good.  He  meant  that  we  should  be  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  enthusiasm  of  our  fellow-men,  that  we 
should  be  loyal  to  our  own  institutions  as  we  find  them, 
no  doubt;  and  yet  not  for  a  moment  can  we  agree  with 
Dr.  Draper's  careless  statement.  He  has  the  whole  case 
turned  wrong  end  to. 

The  business  of  the  teacher  is  to  be  informed  and  to 


78  On  the  Campus 

set  the  step  for  the  crowd,  and  guide  the  direction  of  its 
movement.  Even  the  flag  may  be  carried  in  wrong  direc- 
tions. And  as  for  the  party,  the  safety  of  the  constitu- 
tion lies  in  the  very  fact  that  men  are  intelligent  enough 
all  the  time  not  to  act  with  party  when  the  party  plainly 
goes  wrong.  Mr.  Bryan  found  that  out,  and  so  did  Mr. 
Taft,  and  even  our  most  illustrious  leader  of  reform  finds 
in  Amazon  forests  betimes  space  for  reflection.  To  the 
phrase,  "Whoop  it  up,"  the  distinguished  body  of 
purists  now  before  me  would  doubtless  immediately  give 
answer,  "Cut  it  out!" 

But  there  are  a  thousand  ways  in  which  a  teacher  may 
serve  his  or  her  community  and  not  enter  the  political 
field  at  all.  We  may  even  leave  politics  largely  to  men, 
as  is  still  for  a  season  the  fashion,  I  believe,  in  benighted 
Iowa,  and  yet  in  social  and  economic  ways  find  oppor- 
tunity to  serve  the  commonwealth  to  most  noble  pur- 
pose. Women  avail  to  bring  to  a  community  the  spirit 
of  sanity,  of  cleanness,  of  beauty  that  touches  every  home, 
even  the  humblest,  every  avenue  and  street,  even  the 
widest  and  finest.  Here  is  the  especial  field  of  the  woman 
who  is  called  to  teach.  She  has  the  ideas  and  the  inspir- 
ation ;  others  will  furnish  the  money,  —  for  reason.  Ev- 
ery civic  problem,  every  effort  for  the  welfare  of  children, 
as  well  as  for  the  safety  of  their  mothers,  is  field-work 
for  the  trained  and  gifted  teacher,  and  makes  every- 
where for  the  conservation  of  our  free  institutions. 

The  difference  between  teachers  is  not  so  much  in  what 
they  teach  as  in  themselves,  in  their  appreciation  of  what 
they  attempt,  their  grasp  of  duty,  their  ability  to  serve. 

But,  lastly,  no  man,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  sufficient  for 


The  Teacher  and  the  State  79 

all  these  things,  who  does  not  somehow  find  perpetual 
recreation  in  some  form  of  self -culture ;  and  so  in  the 
third  place  I  have  ventured  to  suggest  the  teacher's  duty 
to  himself  —  the  duty  of  continued  intellectual  effort  in 
some  field  of  intellectual  delight. 

Let  us  speak  not  now  of  organized  graduate  study; 
what  I  urge  is  broader  than  that,  and  will  apply  after  all 
formal  graduate  work  has  been  completed.  I  refer  to 
the  student's  own  care  of  his  own  intellectual  life.  No 
student  passes  through  an  institution  such  as  this  with- 
out finding  somewhere  his  interest  quickened,  his  taste 
aroused,  so  that  he  realizes  his  preference  for  some  one 
definite  thing  —  for  language,  science,  mathematics,  lit- 
erature. Let  him  follow  his  preference.  Let  him  by 
private  study  become  the  best  arithmetician,  the  best 
astronomer,  the  best  physicist  in  Iowa;  let  him  pursue 
to  the  last  detail  the  science  of  field  and  river,  as  every- 
where such  is  now  accessible ;  let  him  study  his  favorite 
language,  his  favorite  page  of  history.  In  all  these  things 
rather  in  some  one  of  them,  he  shall  find  the  pathway  of 
life.  Perhaps  literature  he  affects.  How  fair  the  field ! 
How  great  the  opportunity!  How  needed  in  Iowa  the 
art !  Study  literature,  read  it,  create  it.  On  these  rich 
fields  its  coming  is  delayed.  But  it  yet  shall  rise  from 
the  spirit-peopled  mists  where  our  prairie  rivers  wind, 
from  the  golden  shadows  that  move  across  our  corn- 
embroidered  fields,  from  the  haunting  memory  of  red 
man  and  pioneer,  as  these  move  dimly  now  by  forest, 
grove,  and  spring. 

These  are  some  of  the  things  that  shall  save  the  teacher, 


80  On  the  Campus 

and  so  make  him  mighty  to  save  the  community,  the  com- 
monwealth. 

In  real  physical  things  we  are  rich  enough  to-day.  We 
have  exploited  the  accumulated  wealth  of  millenia  and 
are  surfeited.  What  we  need  is  wisdom  to  use  our  in- 
heritance. This  we  must  have  if  we  are  not  to  sink  in 
the  mire  of  commercialism  and  see  all  high  vision,  all 
pure  appreciation,  blotted  out  for  us  and  for  our  chil- 
dren. To  avert  such  catastrophe,  you  men  and  women 
are  this  day  set  apart;  to  forfend  it  by  your  own  loyal 
enthusiasm;  by  the  ideals  you  set  up  to  anticipate  the 
swiftness  of  its  coming,  that  the  Republic  may  live  and 
not  die! 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOLS 

I  never  have  been  much  interested  in  failures.  In- 
deed I  incline  to  admit  failure  as  a  possibility  in  noth- 
ing except  that  which  is  intrinsically  wrong.  That  of 
course  is  bound  to  fail  sooner  or  later,  and  our  interest 
can  be  but  of  a  pathetic  sort.  When,  therefore,  I  hear, 
as  sometimes  I  do,  men  proclaiming  the  failure  of  the 
common  schools,  I  am  less  alarmed.  I  am  disturbed,  of 
course,  fearing  mistaken  judgment  as  to  what  is  right. 
But  my  disturbance  as  the  years  go  by  is  more  and  more 
slight;  because,  as  I  hope  to  show,  as  time  passes  I  am 
more  and  more  convinced  of  the  success  of  our  schools 
and  that  failure  is  far  from  them.  And  yet  the  cry  is 
still  abroad  that  the  common  schools  are  a  failure ! 

In  studying  the  situation  with  care  for  many  years,  I 
find  that  those  who  make  such  statements  belong  to  one 
or  other  of  two  classes.  First,  there  are  those  who  would 
attract  attention  to  themselves  by  assailing  something 
universally  affirmed ;  as  who  should  say  that  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt  is  a  poor  actress ;  or  that  a  fine  auto  is  not  a  hand- 
some ornament  to  an  American  gentleman's  dooryard; 
or  that  the  Sahara  is  not  much  of  a  desert.  These  peo- 
ple have  no  special  interest  in  the  contention;  they  are 
talking  for  talk's  sake,  and  may  be  dismissed  forthwith 
from  serious  consideration. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  class  of  critics  of  en- 
tirely different  sort ;  these  merit  our  attention.  These  are 


82  On  the  Campus 

men  really  interested  in  public  education;  sincere  men, 
but,  as  it  seems  to  me,  men  of  more  narrow  vision;  men 
who,  though  themselves  not  plumbers,  yet  deem  the  schools 
a  failure,  because  every  boy  who  leaves  them  is  not  trained 
with  ready  hand  to  wipe  a  joint;  men  who  are  not 
farmers,  but  think  that  young  people  should  all  study 
agriculture,  etc.  Or  the  critic  is  a  philosopher,  a  man 
of  letters,  and  deplores  the  lack  of  complete  literary 
training  for  every  human  soul;  he  is  a  moralist  or  re- 
ligionist or  churchman,  and  says  the  schools  are  lacking 
in  religious  training;  they  are  Godless.  In  short,  these 
are  generally  real  critics.  Sometimes  such  a  critic  plain- 
ly has  an  ax  to  grind,  but  generally  speaking  he  is  sin- 
cere; he  deems  public  education  a  failure  because,  as 
he  thinks,  some  one  thing  is  not  realized  as  the  case  de- 
mands. He  calls  for  changed  regime,  assuming  that  suc- 
cess or  failure  lies  chiefly  in  the  program,  and  if  the  re- 
sults are  in  any  way  less  fortunate  we  should  blame  the 
bill  of  fare.  Such  criticism  may  receive  brief  attention 
as  we  go  on. 

It  will  contribute  to  clearness  if  at  the  outset  we  con- 
sider just  what  is  really  proposed.  Before  we  can  dis- 
cuss a  particular  machine  as  to  its  success  or  failure,  we 
must  know  its  purpose,  what  it  is  for ;  and  in  exactly  the 
same  way  we  attribute  success  or  failure  to  any  institu- 
tion. The  test  of  an  invention  is  the  accomplishment 
of  an  inventor's  dream;  the  test  of  a  patriot's  vision,  his 
prevision,  is  history ! 

What  then  do  our  common  schools  propose  ? 

The  common  schools,  as  I  conceive,  propose  primarily 
just  one  thing,  viz.,  civic  training.  But  this  training 
shall  be: 


The  Success  of  the  Public  Schools       83 

First,  universal;  it  must  reach  every  one  who  shares 
in  civic  duty.  In  our  system  that  means  practically 
everybody. 

Second,  such  training  must  be  relevant,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, efficient;  must  create  or  help  to  create  a  citizenry 
capable  of  self-government. 

My  argument  is  that  the  public  schools  are  a  success 
if  to  a  reasonable  degree  they  meet  these  two  require- 
ments. 

The  first  thing  then  proposed,  as  I  esteem  it,  is  equal 
educational  opportunity  for  every  child.  It  is  believed 
that  education  is  good;  and  if  good  for  anybody,  it  is 
good  for  everybody.  Accordingly,  under  this  demo- 
cratic, socialistic  scheme,  the  school  room  door  is  open 
wide.  Every  effort  is  made,  and  is  making  increasingly, 
in  all  our  communities  and  in  every  commonwealth.  Ex- 
penditure in  this  direction  constitutes  in  every  city  and 
township  the  principal  item.  The  tax  levy  is  high  and 
seems  ever  growing,  but  if  in  a  thoughtless  moment  the 
tax-payer  utters  a  word  of  complaint,  some  one  pro- 
nounces the  magic  word  schools,  and  every  complaint 
dies  on  the  tongue;  schools,  schools,  build  the  schools, 
plenty  of  them,  give  every  boy  and  every  girl  a  chance ! 
Furnish  not  only  teachers,  but  books  and  tools  and  shops, 
and  even  clothing.  Make  way  for  the  children  of  the 
Republic ;  to-morrow  shall  be  better  than  to-day ! 

Surely,  as  far  as  popular  support  is  concerned,  as  far 
as  public  enthusiasm  goes  —  and  this  without  some  basic 
reason  soon  expires  —  surely  in  the  estimation  of  the 
common  people,  for  whose  special  benefit  the  common 
schools  exist,  they  are  a  success. 


On  the  Campus 


But,  secondly,  as  stated,  as  a  further,  let  us  say  ulti- 
mate, purpose  for  which,  the  public  or  common  schools 
exist,  I  place  citizenship,  self-government,  democracy. 
The  crown  prince  is  from  his  youth  up  carefully  trained. 
He  has  before  him  always  the  very  finest  instructors,  the 
highest  intellectual  and  cultural  models;  and  why? 
Simply  that  he  may  be  fitted  for  the  place  he  after  while 
must  fill.  And  so  the  youthful  citizen  of  the  Republic; 
we  summon  him  to  the  more  difficult  task  of  joining  all 
his  fellows  in  the  government  of  his  country;  to  him 
and  them  we  entrust  the  management  of  its  vast  con- 
cerns, the  happiness  of  its  millions;  the  direction  of  its 
pregnant  future.  What  preparation  shall  we  not  have, 
what  effort  shall  we  not  make,  in  view  of  such  tremen- 
dous issues? 

The  king  will  govern  better  if  he  be  hale  and  happy; 
physical  well-being  makes  for  mental  sanity  and  whole- 
ness; and  so  incidentally  the  training  of  the  king  shall 
concern,  if  possible,  his  own  well-being  and  joy  in  life ; 
and  for  the  common  school  the  happiness  of  the  child, 
the  citizen,  in  manhood  as  in  age,  becomes  a  consideration 
by  no  means  foreign  to  its  purpose.  Indeed,  if  we  go 
deeply  into  such  a  survey,  the  purpose  of  the  common 
schools  will  presently  become  commensurate  with  our 
highest  intelligence,  and  in  theory,  at  least,  find  no  limit 
this  side  the  supreme  accomplishments  of  the  human 
soul. 

The  Greeks,  who,  as  I  read  it,  were  the  discoverers  of 
civil  and  religious  freedom  in  this  world,  six  hundred 
years  before  Christ,  established  a  system  of  public  edu- 
cation for  the  purpose  of  developing  individual  citizens. 


The  Success  of  the  Public  Schools       85 

Indeed,  a  free  government  can  not  conceivably  exist  un- 
der other  conditions.  Such  government  as  the  Greeks 
sought,  as  we  seek,  is  more  than  a  democracy ;  it  may  or 
may  not  be  a  republic;  it  is  a  sodality,  a  fraternity,  a 
brotherhood  of  equals,  each  seeking  the  same  thing  for 
all;  it  is  an  enlightened  socialism. 

No  one  has  more  beautifully  and  exactly  stated  the 
purpose  the  schools  have  in  view  than  the  Puritan  poet, 
John  Milton.  Milton  was  a  republican,  a  democrat,  if 
you  will,  and  his  remarkable,  oft-quoted  sentence,  writ- 
ten nearly  three  hundred  years  ago,  is  for  our  present 
discussion  the  sum  of  political  wisdom.  ''I  call  a  com- 
plete and  generous  education  that  which  fits  a  man  to 
perform  justly,  skilfully,  and  magnanimously  all  the  of- 
fices [duties]  both  public  and  private,  of  peace  and  war. " 

Stand  off  now  and  contemplate  for  a  little  the  form 
of  government  under  which  we  have  elected  to  live.  Di- 
vest yourself  for  the  moment  of  all  preconceived  or  in- 
herited notions  of  what  education  ought  to  be  or  mean, 
and  think  only  of  the  kind  of  training  which  a  state  such 
as  ours  shall  undertake  for  itself  in  order  to  make  the 
system  work;  and  I  believe  that  you  will  realize  that 
John  Milton's  sentence  is  an  extremely  pertinent  and 
noble  utterance  of  a  wise  and  noble  man.  Milton  does 
not  describe  the  educational  ideals  of  the  universities, 
of  the  church,  nor  even  the  education  he  had  himself 
enjoyed ;  nothing  of  that  sort.  He  was  a  scholar  equal 
to  any  of  his  century;  he  was  secretary  of  state  for 
Oliver  Cromwell  and  could  write  the  dispatches  of  his 
office  in  the  language  of  the  court  to  which  his  message 
was  sent;  his  learning  in  what  we  term  letters  was  co- 


86  On  the  Campus 

extensive  with,  the  best  the  world  has  treasured, —  and 
yet,  when  he  comes  to  discuss  public  education,  he  thinks 
not  of  any  of  these  things.  Instead  he  goes  straight  to 
the  practical  heart  of  the  case  and  declares  that  public 
education  shall  fit  a  man  for  just  one  thing;  for  duty, 
for  his  civic  duties-,  for  all  the  offices  (duties)  both  pub- 
lic and  private,  in  peace  and  war.  Noblesse  oblige  is  the 
old  French,  saying  which  means  that  very  nobiUty  puts 
the  king  under  obligation;  and  Milton  means  to  tell  us 
that  if  we  are  to  take  the  king's  place,  as  in  his  time 
men  did,  we  can  do  it  only  by  assuming  royal  obligation ; 
duty,  duty,  duty ! 

Milton  would  have  a  man  look  to  it  that  he  govern  his 
own  household,  private  duty,  than  which  in  a  free  gov- 
ernment what  can  be  more  important;  he  would  have  a 
man  join  with  his  fellows  to  manage  the  block  on  which 
he  lives,  if  citizen  of  a  town;  to  see  that  each  man  has 
his  own  without  suffering  trespass;  that  the  common  al- 
ley is  kept  clean  and  sanitary,  that  trees  are  properly 
selected  and  properly  planted;  that  walks  are  properly 
placed  and  properly  built;  he  would  have  the  citizen 
taught  how  to  manage  his  ward,  how  to  vote,  how  to 
elect  the  alderman;  the  mayor,  and  the  duties  of  each; 
the  management  of  the  town,  the  city ;  that  the  duties  are 
identical  whether  the  town  be  large  or  small;  that  the 
government  of  farm  and  township  are  quite  the  same; 
and  that  to  the  management  of  commonwealth  and  re- 
public we  apply  the  same  principles  exactly  until  at 
length  the  whole  country  is  managed  by  the  simple  dis- 
charge of  individual  duty,  and  the  nation  is  governed 
by  law. 


The  Success  of  the  Public  Schools       87 

The  success  of  the  common  schools,  then,  is  seen  in 
proportion  as  our  people,  now  for  half  a  century  so 
largely  trained  in  these  public  institutions,  rise  to  the 
discharge  of  public  and  private  duty  in  accordance  with 
Milton's  law,  as  we  may  now  call  it,  doing  their  civic 
work  with  justice,  skill,  and  greatness  of  spirit,  unselfish 
generosity  and  love.  I  believe  that  it  can  be  shown  that 
Milton's  law  is  not  only  ideal,  but  that  in  all  our  com- 
munities, wherever  the  common  schools  have  a  fair 
chance,  its  terms  are  realized  to  a  remarkable  degree  in 
the  universal  public  weal.  Do  not  misunderstand  me. 
No  system  of  education,  public  or  private,  can  usher  in 
the  millenium  on  this  unhappy  world.  The  natural  an- 
tipathy, for  one  thing,  between  the  differentiated  races, 
will  be  a  source  of  trouble,  as  it  seems  to  me,  for  long, 
even  though  we  should  begin  to-morrow  to  cease  inter- 
ference with  each  other.  If  it  is  true  that  "of  one  blood 
God  hath  made  all  nations  of  men  for  to  dwell  on  all  the 
face  of  the  earth  " ;  it  is  just  as  true,  as  the  scripture  quot- 
ed goes  on  to  say,  that  He  hath  "determined  the  bounds 
of  their  habitation."  When  we  shift  the  races  and  peo- 
ples about  and  commingle  them,  we  interfere  with  the 
laws  which  have  been  long  established  and  so  render  the 
problem  of  self-government  everywhere  more  difficult. 

Our  civil  war,  which,  in  sporadic  lynching  outbreaks, 
still  continues,  is  in  this  sense  a  racial  conflict;  and  so 
also  in  a  different  way  our  Spanish  and  Mexican  troubles. 
But  in  all  this,  even  at  this  moment,  a  sense  of  justice 
and  magnanimity,  softly  luminous  but  still  brightening, 
may  easily  be  traced  in  nearly  all  the  slowly  crystalliz- 
ing policy  of  this  Republic.  Whatsoever  of  uniform  phil- 


88  On  the  Campus 

anthropic,  brotherly  sentiment  obtains  in  our  wider  na- 
tional life  must  be  in  some  large  measure  attributable  to 
the  broad  democracy  of  our  public  schools. 

The  people  of  this  country  are  just  now  fortunate 
above  all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Men  say  it  is  because 
of  our  isolation.  Doubtless  in  part  this  is  true ;  although 
the  old  world  also  in  some  measure  is  isolated  too.  But 
there  are  inherent  causes  for  our  quiet,  our  happy,  if 
less  interesting,  history.  The  open  way  to  life,  liberty 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  has  never  been  so  broad  in 
this  world  as  it  is  in  Iowa  at  this  moment;  nowhere  is 
property  so  safe,  religious  liberty  so  secure ;  nowhere  do 
so  many  people  participate  so  largely  in  the  pleasure  of 
the  mind  because  able  to  read,  to  write;  nowhere  is 
wealth  so  generally  diffused  and  its  enjoyment  so  ra- 
tional; nowhere  is  government  so  real  and  yet  so  mild 
and  so  loyally  sustained;  nowhere  is  there  less  distinc- 
tion of  class  and  even  of  race ;  and  this  in  the  face  of  the 
fact  that  at  this  moment  we  are  thronged  with  people 
of  every  sort  and  condition,  not  from  the  countries  of 
Europe  only,  but  from  all  lands,  all  sorts,  Jews  and 
proselytes,  ' '  Parthians  and  Medes,  and  Elamites,  and  the 
dwellers  in  Mesopotamia/'  all  spreading  and  mingling 
in  our  population ;  and  still  we  have  peace,  even  in  Chi- 
cago! 

It  is  admitted  that  to  meet  such  conditions  the  only 
possible  transforming  agency  is  the  public  school;  if  so, 
the  success  is  simply  marvelous. 

But  it  will  be  said,  the  public  schools  are  not  the  only 
factors  contributing  to  our  good  fortune.  This  is  cer- 
tainly admitted.  No  child  is  educated  by  any  kind  of 


The  Success  of  the  Public  Schools       89 

school  alone.  He  is  educated  by  his  home,  by  the  city, 
the  neighborhood,  the  condition  of  the  street,  the  social 
status  in  which  he  appears,  the  very  climate,  the  atmos- 
phere —  in  short,  by  external  impulse  that  reaches  and 
plays  upon  the  pliant  tendencies  of  his  youthful  soul, 
by  his  whole  environment.  A  boy  trained  in  our  schools 
would  find  himself  strangely  handicapped  if  dropped 
suddenly  into  the  Soudan,  Persia,  or  even  certain  coun- 
tries of  Europe.  The  church  helps,  the  city  helps,  the 
parks  help,  and  the  gardens,  even  the  flowing  waters  of 
the  streams;  but  after  all  it  is  the  schools  which,  in  my- 
judgment,  lend  that  essential  touch  which  makes  the 
citizens  who  save  the  commonwealth. 

But  it  is  argued  further  that  this  can  not  be  so,  be- 
cause the  schools  are  failing  so  largely  to  reach  our  chil- 
dren, so  many,  it  is  said,  are  not  in  the  schools ;  enroll- 
ment does  not  meet  the  statistics  of  population.  It  is 
said  truthfully  that  many  children  are  not  enrolled,  not 
subject  to  the  very  influences  for  which  people  so  will- 
ingly and  lavishly  pay.  For  instance,  in  Iowa  in  1914 
the  number  of  persons  between  five  and  twenty-one  years 
was  about  770,000;  the  enrollment  was  only  about 
500,000.  A  system,  no  matter  how  enthusiastically  pro- 
claimed and  supported,  can  scarcely,  it  is  said,  be  es- 
teemed successful  when  it  really  reaches  only  two-thirds 
of  those  for  whom  it  is  intended. 

But  let  us  not  be  too  sure  that  we  see  the  fact .  It  is 
trite  that  the  age-limit  we  have  selected  is  extreme. 
Thousands  of  children  are  not  sent  to  school  so  early, 
and  only  the  fewest  of  young  people  are  in  grades  or 
even  high  schools  as  late  as  the  age  of  twenty-one.  Our 


90  On  the  Campus 

records  show  that  young  people  reach  the  University  at 
the  average  age  of  eighteen  and  one-half  years ;  and  while 
the  University  is  of  course  undoubtedly  part  and  parcel 
of  our  system  of  common  schools,  nevertheless  in  its 
nature  it  must  be  always  of  immediate  use  to  only  a  small 
fraction  of  our  school  population,  and  its  enrollment  at 
any  particular  time  is  negligible  in  our  present  examina- 
tion. It  is  in  general  safe  to  say  that  enrollment  ceases 
for  a  large  number  of  our  children  near  the  age  of 
eighteen. 

To  make  my  meaning  perfectly  clear,  suppose  we  as- 
sume our  school  population  today  to  be  770,000,  and  ad- 
mit that  of  this  number  270,000  are  not  enrolled,  this 
large  shortage  will  be  found  to  include: 

1.  Those   attending  private   schools;   perhaps   50,000. 

Statistics. 

2.  Those  between  five  and  seven  years,  not  yet  entered, 

10,000.     Estimate. 

3.  Those  between  sixteen  and  twenty-one  years,  gain- 

fully employed,  100,000.     Statistics. 

4.  Those  between  sixteen  and  twenty-one  years,  in  the 

service  of  the  home,  in  house  or  field,  100,000. 
Estimate. 

5.  Those  really  neglected,  perhaps,  10,000.     Estimate 

based  on  statistics. 

Here  the  failure  can  be  attributed  to  the  schools  only 
in  that  parents  have  not  been  so  affected  by  them  as  not 
to  conform  in  full  to  the  more  beneficent  provisions  of 
the  law.  The  statute  makes  the  age  limits  five  to  twen- 
ty-one ;  the  judgment  of  parents  runs  from  six  or  seven 
to  sixteen  or  seventeen;  and  the  difficulty  is  passed  on 
from  generation  to  generation. 


The  Success  of  the  Public  Schools       91 

Perhaps  compulsory  laws  will  help ;  perhaps  schools  at- 
tractive to  grown-up  girls  and  boys  will  help;  perhaps 
the  recession  of  the  so-called  commercial  spirit  which  to- 
day holds  ever  before  our  young  people,  as  the  only  cri- 
terion of  successful  living,  the  mere  ability  to  make 
money,  —  perhaps  the  disappearance  of  this  idea  pres- 
ently will  help ;  perhaps  will  help  the  education  of  par- 
ents, persuading  them,  both  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
that  "of  the  lifetime  one  has  to  live  for  the  world,  a 
large  portion  —  say  from  eighteen  to  twenty-four  years, 
according  to  the  individual's  nature  —  is  best  spent  in 
activities  chosen  for  their  value  in  making  his  whole  life 
finer  and  more  serviceable,  irrespective  of  their  immedi- 
ate money  price.  The  community  that  bravely  insists 
on  protecting  the  young  against  being  used  up  in  helping 
the  community  get  a  living,  soon  finds  itself  getting  a 
better  living,  and  other  things  of  much  more  worth." 

But  perhaps,  and  far  above  all,  we  need  just  now  a 
more  continuous  effort  in  our  school  administration.  In 
my  opinion  the  schools  should  never  close.  In  the  war  for 
the  salvation  of  the  Republic,  the  war  against  worse  than 
barbaric  ignorance  and  sloth  and  greed,  the  doors  of  the 
school  house,  like  the  doors  of  the  temple  of  Janus,  shall 
never  close,  from  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year, 
from  century  to  century.  There  shall  be  no  vacation,  no 
peace,  for  there  is  no  discharge  in  this  war.  The  teacher- 
soldiers  may  faint  and  grow  weary,  need  respite  and 
furlough,  but  in  my  judgment  we  shall  never  give  our 
schools  their  maximum  efficiency  until  we  reach  an  al- 
most perpetual  session;  no  vacation  for  the  physical 
plant;  use  it,  use  it,  until  everybody  shall  come  in  and 


92  On  the  Campus 

find  help  and  inspiration ;  if  not  in  one  way,  then  in  an- 
other, and  the  enrollment  shall  match  not  the  school  pop- 
ulation only,  but  if  possible  the  census  entire. 

As  it  is,  we  lose  so  very  much.  We  lose  the  summer  al- 
most wholly.  We  lose  Saturday,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
Sunday  in  large  measure.  More  than  all,  we  lose  morale, 
we  lose  control.  In  the  long  vacation  we  lose,  at  least  in 
part,  what  we  have  gained  during  the  labor  of  the  rest 
of  the  year.  When  vacation  comes  we  really  change 
teachers ;  we  really  turn  the  children  over  to  chance ;  we 
know  not  what  we  do;  there  is  no  superintendence,  no 
supervision.  Why  should  we  crowd  the  curriculum  dur- 
ing certain  months  of  the  year,  at  peril  of  both  pupil 
and  subject,  and  let  all  the  summer  go  waste?  Why 
shall  vacation  time  not  be  given  under  supervision  to  the 
things  the  children  like  to  do  in  the  summer,  to  organ- 
ized play,  to  the  rearing  of  chicks  and  plants,  to  domestic 
science,  to  planting  and  sowing,  to  building  kites,  and 
wagons,  and  telephones,  and  boats,  to  all  industrial  em- 
ployment, leaving  if  you  will  the  usual  school  calendar 
less  burdened  for  the  proper  presentation  of  subjects 
more  specifically  informational,  to  civic  instruction,  to 
the  things  of  the  mind,  the  things  of  the  spirit? 

As  things  go  now,  in  a  state  where  the  life  of  the  Re- 
public depends  upon  absolute  attention  and  perpetual 
vigilance,  we  voluntarily  go  off  duty,  go  on  leave,  on 
furlough,  one-third  of  the  time.  No  wonder  men  talk 
of  the  failure  of  schools ;  unless  we  repent  we  may  have 
the  failure  of  the  Republic  to  talk  of  before  even  we  are 
aware. 

But  it  is  said  that  our  schools  are  unsuccessful  because 


The  Success  of  the  Public  Schools       93 

of  defective  curriculum;  no  schools  can  be  of  any  use 
which  do  not  teach  a  great  number  of  things,  —  botany, 
astronomy,  physiology,  Bible  history,  agriculture,  Greek. 
It  seems  to  one  who  ponders  upon  this  matter  almost 
providential  that  our  schools  have  come  so  far  without 
a  curriculum  definitely  prescribed  by  statute.  Our  chil- 
dren are  evidently  taught  basic  things,  whether  they 
learn  other  things  or  not.  To  be  able  to  exercise  civic 
duty  the  boy  must  be  able  to  read,  to  write,  to  compute 
accounts;  with  such  knowledge,  Washington,  Jackson, 
Lincoln,  and  Cleveland  accomplished  all  the  demands  of 
the  republic.  Nay,  more:  does  not  even  such  simple 
knowledge  open  the  way  to  all  highest  things?  With  it 
Laplace  found  the  way  to  the  stars  and  discovered  plan- 
ets new;  with  it  Faraday,  the  blacksmith's  boy,  prepared 
the  way  for  all  that  has  since  been  done  in  electrical 
science;  with  it  Stephenson  found  the  locomotive,  Ark- 
wright  the  spinning- jenny,  Whitney  the  cotton-gin,  Edi- 
son the  electric  light,  Gray  the  telephone,  Wright  the 
aeroplane.  Teach  a  man  the  magic  of  numbers  and  teach 
him  to  read,  and  you  open  the  gateway  to  endless  worlds ! 
Not  that  I  would  disapprove  of  all  else  in  public  school 
work;  not  that;  but  that  I  deem  it  fortunate  that  so 
much  is  left  to  the  preference  of  the  people  themselves. 
Music  and  language,  history,  geography,  civics,  geometry, 
natural  science,  physics,  —  use  all  these  things  and  other 
arts,  as  opportunity  may  open  the  way.  Open  for  chil- 
dren the  windows  of  the  world  wide  as  you  may.  Few 
or  no  studies  are  required;  the  choice  is  left  to  the 
people  themselves.  Now  and  then  some  meddler  crowds 
upon  the  statute  book  some  specific  thing  to  be  taught 


94  On  the  Campus 

in  the  schools;  vainly,  I  think.     Seek  ye  first  the  basic 
things,  and  all  other  things  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

But  after  all  the  success  of  our  American  public 
schools,  as  discussed  in  the  present  paper,  lies  not  in  the 
curriculum,  free  or  prescribed,  not  in  the  enrollment,  not 
in  our  wealth  and  lavish  expense ;  but  in  the  personality 
and  power  of  the  American  teacher.  The  American 
teacher  is  unlike  any  other  in  the  world;  for  one  thing, 
because  in  thousands  and  thousands  of  cases  that  officer 
is  a  woman.  In  our  schools  all  the  tact,  all  the  wit,  the 
enthusiasm  and  unquestioned  patriotism  of  the  Amer- 
ican woman  have  been  at  the  service  of  this  nation,  from 
the  days  of  Horace  Mann  until  now,  and  the  result  is 
what  we  are.  A  good  teacher  makes  a  good  school;  an 
efficient  teacher  makes  a  useful  school ;  a  patriotic  teacher 
conserves  the  Republic.  Her  pupils  learn  to  write,  to 
read,  to  read  that  which  is  good;  they  learn  order  and 
method  and  procedure ;  they  learn  obedience,  they  learn 
to  respect  the  rights  each  of  the  other ;  to  love  their  coun- 
try. The  faithful  Christian  woman  makes  to-day  the 
success  of  the  American  school.  Without  a  text  she 
teaches  patriotism,  without  dogma  she  teaches  faith;  by 
her  own  high  personal  character  she  builds  character 
and  shapes  the  destinies  of  men.  Her  name  may  never 
be  entered  upon  the  world's  broad  scroll  of  fame;  her 
fortune  may  be  forgotten,  and  an  ungrateful  common- 
wealth may  even  refuse  the  pension  which  shall  save  her 
age  from  penury  and  toil ;  but  the  history  of  our  common 
country  will  one  day  tell  her  triumph,  and  the  glory  of 
the  future,  the  success  of  the  common  schools,  shall  be 
her  own. 


CULTURE  AND  WOMEN'S  CLUBS 

Two  thoughts  occur  to  me  as  I  appear  before  this  dis- 
tinguished company  this  afternoon.  The  one,  of  course, 
is  that  this  is  Lincoln's  birthday.  All  famous  things 
start  to  memory  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  while  we 
compare  and  contrast  the  seeming  good  fortune  of  this 
present  hour,  in  appearance,  at  least,  so  prosperous,  so 
beautiful,  so  free  from  conflict  and  from  care,  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  that  Lincoln  knew.  The  second  turns 
on  the  fact  that  this  is  an  organized  congress  of  women, 
and  we  cannot  but  recall  the  social  and  political  progress 
of  women  since  the  days  of  sixty-four  and  five. 

To  develop  such  thoughts  as  these  might  well  be  all- 
sufficient  for  a  Lincoln's  birthday  speech,  and  in  fact 
such  is  the  plan  in  what  I  shall  go  on  to  say.  And  yet, 
Lincoln's  story  has  been  often  told;  I  must  vary  its  set- 
ting if  my  hearers  heed  at  all ;  and  as  for  present  pros- 
perity,—  well,  even  this,  as  will,  I  hope,  appear,  may 
hide  problems  pressing,  dangerous  even  as  those  the 
great  President  toiled  to  solve.  I  shall  talk  of  Lincoln 
and  his  time,  not  to  repeat  an  oft-told  story,  but  simply 
to  find  a  background  on  which  mayhap  the  meaning  of 
present  years  and  deeds  may  take  more  vivid  color. 

The  really  vital  interest  that  everywhere  attaches  to 
the  name  and  fame  of  Abraham  Lincoln  is  surely 
marvelous.  To  the  vast  majority  of  those  who  this  day 
name  him,  the  great  President,  of  course,  is  but  a  char- 


96  On  the  Campus 

acter  in  history,  like  many  another;  nevertheless,  the 
name  of  none  other,  that  I  know  of,  is  greeted,  whenever 
mentioned,  with  such  general,  nay,  universal,  heartiness, 
as  if  to  tell  of  personal  friendship  and  affection. 

For  some  reason  Lincoln  is  our  own,  especially  in 
these  prairie  states.  Our  pioneer  fathers  knew  him  and 
he  knew  them.  He  had  little  formal  education.  He 
had  no  theories.  The  uncertainties  of  conflicting  schools 
of  human  thought  cast  no  wavering  shadows  for  his  un- 
clouded mind.  He  saw  with  absolute  clearness  the 
simple  facts  of  what  proved  a  tremendous  crisis  in  a 
nation's  life,  and  he  never  got  beyond  those  facts.  The 
crisis  and  his  life  passed  out  together. 

He  was  poor.  For  that  reason,  if  for  no  other,  the 
vast  majority  of  men  are  on  his  side;  he  walked  with 
poverty  all  his  life  and  took  the  chief  place  in  the  great 
Republic  of  the  world,  having  little,  if  any,  property 
beyond  his  simple  residence  in  an  unpaved  prairie  town ; 
and  yet  the  memory  of  this  man  and  the  ideals  for 
which  he  stood  constitute,  all  unseen,  a  wealth  greater 
than  all  our  docks  and  cars,  our  buildings  fine,  because 
more  vivifying  and  more  enduring;  in  some  way  more 
beautiful  and  more  to  be  desired. 

I  have  nothing  new  to-day  to  add  to  the  familiar  an- 
nals of  the  sixties  or  of  the  decade  just  before;  all  we 
can  likely  ever  know  about  our  hero  has  long  ago  been 
said  and  written;  the  story  is  not  only  familiar;  it  is 
already  old ;  but  OUR  history  is  new,  OUR  destiny  is  just 
now  in  the  making,  and  perhaps  in  this  quiet  hour,  on 
this  anniversary  of  Lincoln's  birth,  as  our  minds  nat- 
urally return  to  the  days  in  which  he  lived,  to  the  peo- 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  97 

pie  and  conditions  of  his  time,  to  the  historic  men  and 
women  who  stood  about  him  and  to  some  of  the  things 
they  did,  memorable  here  and  now,  perhaps  we  may  find 
something  to  interest,  somewhat  of  inspiration,  for  prob- 
lems just  at  hand. 

It  was  my  fortune,  whether  for  good  or  ill,  to  pass 
the  days  of  youth  in  the  center  of  this  great  valley,  and 
personal  memory  covers  much  of  Lincoln's  political 
career.  The  middle  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century 
were  great  decades  from  every  point  of  view,  and  the 
men  and  doings  of  that  time  are  themes  for  fascinating 
story  to  this  day.  As  I  look  back  upon  what  I  can  re- 
call, I  appreciate,  as  I  did  not  then,  as  perhaps  did  no 
one  then,  just  how  wonderful  was  the  time,  how  re- 
markable were  the  people  who  lived  and  acted  upon  the 
open  stage  of  our  most  eventful  political  and  social  life. 
It  was  an  era  of  great  men.  We  had  the  New  Eng- 
land poets,  we  had  Beecher  and  Sumner  and  Grreeley 
and  Lincoln  and  Douglas,  and  a  host  of  men  only  less 
widely  known ;  and  while  we  reckoned  these  distinguished 
men,  great  men,  yet,  in  no  case,  did  we  esteem  them 
accurately,  nor  did  we  concern  ourselves  about  their  pos- 
sible future  fame.  The  men  of  our  neighborhood  thought 
it  not  worth  while  to  hear  Abraham  Lincoln,  although 
Lincoln  and  Douglas  joined  their  great  debate  in  a  little 
city  not  very  far  away. 

The  reason  for  our  less  perfect  appreciations  lay,  of 
course,  partly  in  the  oft-stated  fact  that  no  generation 
of  men  can  forecast  the  ultimate  judgments  of  history. 
That  goes  without  saying.  But  the  greater  reason,  as 
it  now  seems  to  me,  was  to  be  found  in  another,  nearer 


On  the  Campus 


fact,  the  presence  of  an  all-overpowering  social  question 
which  then  engaged  the  attention  of  all  sorts  of  men. 
Men  of  distinction  and  men  of  no  distinction,  all  were 
alike  concerned  about  the  extension  of  slavery;  and  the 
question  whether  one  man  should  earn  bread  which 
another  should  be  allowed  to  eat,  was  a  query  having 
easy,  straight  appeal  to  every  human  soul.  The  simple 
greatness  of  many  men,  whose  vision  is  now  recognized, 
we  overlooked,  by  virtue  of  the  very  hugeness  of  the 
problems  with  which  they  had  to  do. 

If  in  those  days  we  failed  to  recognize  men,  much  less 
is  it  a  matter  of  surprise,  perhaps,  that  we  failed  alto- 
gether, or  almost  entirely,  to  note  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual greatness  of  certain  women.  Their  presence  in 
public  discussion  was  novel,  even  unwelcome;  and  when 
a  woman  did  appear,  her  argument,  her  cause,  her 
ability  in  presentation,  all  counted  for  naught  in  pres- 
ence of  a  prevailing  prejudice  which  made  everywhere 
to  her  discomfiture.  Women  were  as  much  interested  in 
the  suppression  of  slavery  as  anybody;  and,  as  I  could 
show  you,  if  time  allowed,  they  also,  some  of  them,  at 
this  very  time  awoke  to  the  realization  of  their  own  op- 
pression; but  only  here  and  there  was  their  voice  effec- 
tive in  the  universal  hubbub  of  acrimonious  political  de- 
bate. 

Yet  there  were  some  women  who  did  make  themselves 
heard,  some  who  became  famous.  I  may  be  pardoned, 
if  in  this  presence,  I  mention  one  or  two.  Miss  Susan  B. 
Anthony,  for  instance,  ridiculed  as  she  has  often  been, 
was  one  of  the  ablest  platform  speakers  I  have  ever 
heard.  She  had  a  fine  presence ;  she  had  a  clear,  beauti- 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  99 

ful  voice;  she  knew  her  subject  and  was  absolutely  so 
committed  to  it  that  she  never  faltered ;  she  feared  noth- 
ing. As  one  listened,  he  forgot  the  speaker;  he  noted 
first  only  the  music  of  her  speech,  like  a  rain  of  silver 
coin  upon  a  marble  counter;  then  he  caught  the  argu- 
ment, the  torrent  of  invective  and  sarcasm,  the  gentle- 
ness of  appeal,  and  went  away,  if  not  convinced,  at  least 
conscious  that  he  should  have  been.  She  was  a  great 
student,  a  fearless  orator,  and  a  great  and  noble  woman. 

And  she  won!  Prior  to  1860  she  secured,  through 
legislation,  for  the  women  of  New  York  State,  the  right 
to  their  own  earnings  and  to  the  guardianship  of  their 
own  children,  amazing  as  that  now  sounds  to  us;  and 
she  won  it  practically  alone.  There  was  no  women's 
club  then  in  every  village  to  help  her;  though  she  had 
doubtless  the  sympathy  of  thousands,  she  was  victorious 
in  her  own  might,  because  she  felt  that  she  was  right; 
and  she  was! 

Another  woman  of  very  different  type,  but  similar 
history,  was  Lucretia  Mott.  She  was  seven  years  of  age 
when  the  nineteenth  century  came  in.  As  a  girl  she 
was  a  teacher  in  the  public  schools  of  New  York,  but 
presently  became  a  preacher  for  the  Society  of  Friends. 
In  1818  she  visited  old  Virginia  in  the  course  of  her  re- 
ligious work,  and  there  saw  black  men  and  women  and 
children  doomed  to  bondage.  She  went  home  to  New 
York,  married,  and  forthwith  joined  her  husband  in  a 
life-long  campaign  for  the  emancipation  of  the  slave. 
She  was  a  member  of  the  American  Anti-Slavery  So- 
ciety; but  when,  in  1840,  she  went  with  her  husband 
to  attend  the  world's  anti-slavery  convention  in  Lon- 


TOO  On  the  Campus 

don  and  was  excluded,  with  all  other  women  who  sought 
to  attend,  she  suddenly  realized  that  even  white  women 
were  not  quite  as  free  from  disability  as  might  be  de- 
sired; and  the  insult  provoked  an  effort  for  her  white 
sisters  in  the  United  States  which,  while  not  supplant- 
ing her  interest  in  freedom  for  the  slave,  presently  be- 
came dominant  to  the  very  latest  day  of  her  life. 

On  a  rainy  night,  the  ninth  of  April,  1870,  your 
speaker  witnessed  in  New  York  City  the  disbanding  of 
the  famous  Anti-Slavery  Society,  to  which,  for  nearly 
forty  years,  some  of  the  bravest  men  and  women  the 
world  has  ever  seen  had  devoted  life  and  fortune.  On 
the  platform  were  assembled  many  of  that  brilliant 
band.  Many  made  short  addresses  there;  but  bright  in 
my  mind  looms  not  the  giant  Douglas  with  leonine  shock 
of  snowy  hair,  his  voice  of  thunder;  not  Wendell  Phil- 
lips, with  his  silver  speech;  not  splendid  Theodore  Til- 
ton,  with  his  nervous  enthusiasm ;  nor  Julia  Ward  Howe, 
with  her  poem  of  jubilant  exultation;  but  I  see  before 
me,  as  if  at  this  very  hour,  the  petite  figure  of  the  tiny 
Quakeress  whose  courage  had  for  forty  years  defied  pub- 
lic sentiment,  defied  hostile  mobs,  now  at  the  age  of 
nearly  eighty,  standing  in  her  place,  clad  in  her  Quaker 
drab,  with  a  white  kerchief  about  her  neck,  folded 
across  her  breast  —  I  see  the  undaunted  oratress,  and  I 
note  her  undiminished  tone,  voicing  her  great  satisfac- 
tion that  one  chapter,  at  least,  in  the  work  of  her  life, 
one  page  in  her  country's  history,  and  in  the  history 
of  the  world,  was  now  complete.  The  book  of  record 
was  finished;  let  it  be  closed  and  closed  forever,  since 
the  possibility  of  human  slavery  had  gone,  and  gone 
forever,  out  of  the  experience  of  human  kind. 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs 


101 


Those  Lincoln  days  were  stirring  days ;  they  were  pre- 
eminently days  of  action.  Men  and  women  met  the 
great  problems  of  their  time,  fought  them  out,  and,  as 
they  could,  thought  them  out  —  the  women  battling  gen- 
erally unaided  and  alone.  Things  were  done!  Many 
were  the  res  gestce,  the  things  attempted,  but  many  also 
the  res  versatce,  the  things  pondered. 

The  Lincoln  time  was  a  time  of  action,  because  a  time 
of  war,  and  it  was  just  in  those  years  of  action  that  the 
women  of  this  country  began  to  find  themselves.  The 
great  commissions,  aiding  the  civil  government  in  the 
care  of  the  soldiers  in  the  field,  gave  women  in  those 
times  their  opportunity.  They  were  organized  and 
worked  together,  with  but  one  end  in  view,  in  every 
village,  more  potently  in  every  city,  most  of  all  in  New 
York  and  Philadelphia;  but  over  the  whole  country, 
women  learned  to  do  things  in  an  organized  way;  they 
found  their  power.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  on  this 
side  1865  begins  the  story  of  every  great  women's  col- 
lege and  of  every  women's  club  in  the  United  States. 

However,  at  the  end  of  the  war,  with  the  passing  of 
necessity,  the  lesson  learned  bade  fair  to  be  forgotten. 
It  remained  for  a  curious  incident  in  connection  with 
the  coming  of  Charles  Dickens  to  this  country  in  1868, 
to  re-awaken  women  to  their  real  social  and  political 
status,  to  bring  about  an  organization  that  became  per- 
manent; and  did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  make  possible  the 
assembly  of  this  hour. 

The  New  York  Press  Club,  in  March,  1868,  gave  a 
dinner  to  Dickens  and  refused  admission  to  women,  many 
of  whom  were  at  that  time  engaged  in  newspaper  work 
in  the  city.  "We'll  have  a  club  of  our  own,"  they 


iO2  On  the  Campus 

cried,  and  under  leadership  of  Mrs.  Croly  (Jennie  June), 
an  Englishwoman,  they  organized  Sorosis,  the  first  wo- 
men 's  club,  the  first  women's  organization  in  which  the 
interests  of  women,  and  women  only,  held  the  place  of 
first  consideration;  the  first  women's  club  in  two  thous- 
and years;  for  be  it  remembered  there  were  clubs  for 
women  in  the  days  of  Aspasia,  and  of  the  Caesars,  in 
what  we  term  pagan  Greece  and  un-Christian  Rome; 
but  none,  until  Sorosis,  in  all  the  centuries  named  of 
the  Christian  church. 

The  new  social  organization  was  by  no  means  wel- 
comed. There  was  at  the  time,  of  course,  no  lack  of 
jest  and  petty  wit;  the  members  of  Sorosis  were,  for  in- 
stance, called  "sorry  sisters ",  etc.;  but  there  was  real 
criticism  too  in  plenty.  There  was,  it  was  said,  no  place 
for  such  a  thing  as  a  women's  club;  such  had  no  aim  or 
excuse  for  existence,  women  knowing  nothing  of  parlia- 
mentary law,  could  not  govern  themselves,  or  accom- 
plish anything  worth  while  even  if  they  wanted  to. 

Curiously  enough  too,  the  organizers  were  ridiculed, 
and  the  organization  decried,  because  men  were  not  made 
eligible  to  membership!  Only  think  of  it!  In  Boston 
about  this  same  time  Mrs.  Severance  was  organizing  her 
woman's  league,  to  which,  in  the  generosity  of  her  good 
heart,  men  were  admitted,  poor  dears!  and  on  learning 
of  this,  some  of  the  charter  members  of  Sorosis  actually 
withdrew;  Kate  Field  among  them.  So  difficult  was  it 
for  the  finest  of  New  York  women  to  come  out  from 
the  traditions  of  centuries  and  stand  alone,  to  defend 
themselves  and  the  ideals  God  had  entrusted  so  large- 
ly to  their  hands ! 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  103 

Let  us  study  Sorosis  a  little:  it  shall  be  worth  our 
while. 

In  the  original  constitution  of  Sorosis,  provision  was 
made  for  two  meetings  a  month,  one  to  be  largely  social ; 
the  other,  for  members  only,  should  discuss  the  ad- 
vancement and  independence  of  women. 

Ten  committees  were  set  to  report  to  the  formal  ses- 
sions of  Sorosis:  committees  on  art,  the  drama,  educa- 
tion, house  and  home,  journalism,  literature,  music, 
philanthropy,  science,  and  working-women. 

As  we  study  it  now,  while  the  broad  range  of  the 
program  may  surprise,  I  believe  its  scope  and  compre- 
hensiveness will  seem  almost  prophetic;  certain  it  has 
been  a  warrant  and  stimulus  everywhere  to  most  use- 
ful, cultural,  and  civic  endeavor.  But  at  the  outset  it 
was  widely  criticised;  first,  because  TOO  BOLD,  too  ambi- 
tious; and  second,  to  be  sure,  because  TOO  TIMID,  too 
little  aggressive! 

I  have  no  doubt  the  charter-members  of  Sorosis  were 
oppressed  by  a  sense  of  timidity.  What  attitude  could 
have  been  more  natural  ?  They  were  doubtless  surprised 
at  their  own  action.  The  idea  of  resenting  the  slight 
put  upon  women  by  the  New  York  Press  Club  was  itself 
startling  in  its  boldness;  how  much  more  the  proposal 
to  crystallize  that  resentment  in  terms  of  enduring  pro- 
test, by  the  organization  of  an  independent  social  effort 
in  which  men  should  forever  have  no  part.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  women  who  had  come  through  the  expe- 
riences of  the  Lincoln  days  were  sure  that  the  Sorosis 
program  was  feeble  to  a  degree.  Mrs.  Stanton,  who  for 
twenty  years  had  been  working  for  a  national  suffrage 


104  On  the  Campus 

association,  no  doubt  felt  disappointed  at  lack  of  even 
mention  of  what  was,  at  that  time,  called  "woman's 
rights";  but  her  day  was  not  yet.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  organizers  of  Sorosis  were  ladies  of  literature.  One 
could  not  expect  much  militarism  from  people  who  used 
such  pen-names  as  Grace  Greenwood,  Jennie  June,  or 
Fannie  Fern.  Perhaps  had  George  Sand,  or  George 
Eliot,  or  George  Craddock  been  citizens  then,  the  comit- 
tees  had  been  named  more  to  the  taste  of  Mrs.  Livermore 
and  Mrs.  Stanton;  but  the  issue,  as  we  see  it  now  un- 
folded, had  never  been  so  fine,  nor  had  women  been  con- 
fronted, as  now,  with  the  opportunity  for  public  service, 
which  is  increasingly  their  own.  Some  women  expected 
an  organization  to  do  things,  but  the  field  of  battle  gave 
place  almost  entirely  to  the  charm  of  study  and  the 
pursuits  of  peace. 

Nevertheless,  the  idea  of  doing  something  practical  in 
the  commonly  accepted  sense  of  the  word  was  not  omit- 
ted, and  has  been  more  or  less  prominent  in  the  pur- 
pose of  many  a  similar  organization  throughout  the 
country  since.  Every  club  worthy  of  the  name  starts 
with  the  idea  of  some  special  service,  but  often  passes 
on  to  ambitions  of  a  different  sort.  Sorosis  attempted 
to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  the  working  women  in 
New  York  City,  and  in  so  doing  touched,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  after  all,  the  greatest  of  our  national,  shall  I  say 
human,  problems,  both  of  that  time  and  at  this  moment, 
the  question  of  poverty,  the  question  of  sufficient  wage, 
the  question  of  human  homes,  the  question  of  the  chil- 
dren. This  question,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  faces  us 
now  in  tremendous  fashion,  and  its  issues  draw  on  apace ; 
its  solution,  however,  seems  far  off  as  ever. 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  105 

However,  in  giving  principal  attention  to  art  and  lit- 
erature, to  things  of  beauty  and  refinement,  Sorosis  was 
criticised  as  lacking  interest  in  things  of  present  value, 
was  dubbed  dilettantish;  in  short,  impractical. 

The  same  charge  is  brought  against  women's  clubs 
to-day,  as  against  many  another  institution  founded  for 
purposes  largely  ideal  or  esthetic.  It  is  said  that  schools 
and  colleges  and  universities  fail  to  keep  up  with  the 
times;  remain  less  practical. 

The  word  practical  has  a  Greek  origin  and  is  indeed  a 
vigorous  word.  It  refers  to  things  that  ought  to  be 
done,  that  have  value  when  done,  or  in  their  doing. 
Practical  things  are  do-able,  directly  serviceable ;  and 
practical,  so  far,  stands  for  activity,  for  visible  action. 

Practical  things  are  good.  A  moment's  reflection  suf- 
fices to  show  that  such  are,  in  our  human  experience, 
basic.  We  must  act,  we  must  do  something,  or  we  per- 
ish. The  animals  act ;  actions  proceed  by  instinct  even ; 
at  least  we  shall  all  agree  that  action  without  knowledge 
is  a  matter  of  experience  all  too  frequent.  Action  is 
easy;  everybody  goes  in  for  doing  something;  we  are 
nothing  these  days  if  not  practical.  We  glory  in  our 
wireless  telegraphs  and  telephones  as  practical  triumphs ; 
our  auto-cars  have  transformed  not  only  locomotion  but 
our  whole  social  fabric.  People  who  before  had  never 
thought  of  leaving  home  now  traverse  the  continent. 

This  is  Lincoln's  birthday,  and,  careless  in  the  midst 
of  splendor,  we  contrast  the  peril  that  was  his ;  admire, 
perhaps,  his  noble  spirit,  and  then  congratulate  ourselves 
that  we  are  free  from  tasks  like  his.  But  surely  we  are 
mistaken.  All  this  splendor  of  modern  life,  all  this 


106  On  the  Campus 

achievement  of  industry,  setting  men  free,  from  the  old 
shackles  of  time  and  space,  all  this  invention,  this  ma- 
chinery to  exploit  the  world  and  make  us  rich  —  all  this 
carries  with  it,  as  it  seems  to  me,  elements  of  peril,  peril 
even  by  the  very  fascination  of  its  novelty  and  excite- 
ment, making  us  forgetful  of  all  that  humanity  has 
learned  to  prize. 

It  may  seem  reactionary  to  call  our  industrial  tri- 
umphs hazardous.  But  are  they  not  so,  even  in  literal 
sense?  Aeroplanes  and  zeppelins  in  struggle  for  the 
mastery  may  yet  destroy  the  Louvre  and  the  Vatican. 

Our  real  and  immediate  danger,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
takes  two  phases :  the  first  affects  our  young  people,  and 
so  the  immediate  future;  the  second  affects  our  whole 
population,  both  present  and  future,  because  it  shows 
the  oppression  and  discontent  of  the  sons  of  toil. 

Our  triumphs  have  made  us  rich;  our  young  people, 
great  numbers  of  them,  are  set  free  from  the  necessity 
of  initiative  and  labor,  and  instead  are  constantly  met 
by  every  sort  of  nervous  excitation.  The  dance  seems 
absolutely  irresistible.  Many  young  folk,  all  unem- 
ployed in  serious  tasks,  tango  the  night  away  and  spend 
insipid  hours  at  cards,  as  if  to  "  bridge "  over  the  sad 
vacuity  from  one  idle  amusement  to  the  next ;  sacrifice  of 
human  life,  wasteful  as  war.  Who  can  contemplate  the 
fact  and  not  fear  for  the  Republic,  in  peril  to-day  even 
as  in  1861.  We  have  for  our  children  glorified  the  so- 
called  practical,  until  they  begin  to  measure  all  human 
success  in  terms  of  luxury,  of  physical  comfort  of 
wealth, —  after  all  impossible  to  thousands, —  and  have 
forgotten  that  life  itself  should  be  reckoned  practical, 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  107 

that  a  successful  republic  is  an  intellectual  achievement ; 
and  that  in  the  great  game,  even  though  a  leading  part 
may  be  denied  us,  yet  are  we,  every  one  of  us,  playing 
for  our  very  LIVES! 

Now  over  against  this  first  peril,  born,  as  I  think,  of 
misconception  of  real  values,  of  overestimate  of  indus- 
trialism as  a  universal,  all-sufficient  social  basis,  we  may 
set  as  one  corrective  at  least,  the  practicality  of  culture, 
the  pursuit  of  genuine  culture,  the  joys  of  intellectual 
life,  the  program  of  Sorosis,  the  dream,  the  effort,  of  a 
thousand  women's  clubs.  This  will  surely  help  some- 
what ;  it  is  for  us  now  to  answer,  how  ? 

There  are  wide  fields  of  knowledge  which  lead  not  to 
action  at  all,  but  which  fascinate  nevertheless ;  afford  us 
pleasure;  which  need  only  presentation  to  be  loved; 
which  lead  to  peace,  to  joy,  to  the  unseen  sweets  of  life ; 
to  judgment,  to  reason;  to  values  accumulating  in  the 
hidden  chambers  of  the  soul,  even  as  the  wealth  of  Minne- 
sota harvests  gathers  beneath  the  silent  summer  sun  in 
the  fields  of  ripening  grain. 

Shall  I  illustrate?  I  am  very  bold;  I  go  to  antiquity 
and  take  the  remotest  illustration  I  can  find.  I  have 
here  in  my  hand  a  small  tablet  of  clay.  As  we  look  at 
it,  we  see  that  it  bears  some  strange  engravure.  On  this 
side  and  on  that  are  delicate  etchings,  curious  lines,  uni- 
form yet  curiously  arranged.  Evidently  a  legend,  some- 
thing to  be  read.  By  dint  of  much  study,  by  long  com- 
parison, at  length  the  student  makes  the  message  plain. 
Here  is  a  deed  to  real  estate,  a  conveyance,  if  you  please. 

It  tells  how  a  farmer  once  conveyed  to  another  a  bit 
of  the  Acadian  plain,  with  running  water,  water  for  ir- 


io8  On  the  Campus 

rigation ;  and  the  picture  rises !  Men  were  living  then ! 
There  was  a  city  and  from  it  stretched,  far  as  sight  could 
reach,  orchards  with  the  green  of  silken  fields.  By  these 
were  walks  and  highways  and  purling  waters,  where  the 
fountains  of  Tigris  came  down  to  make  the  desert  bloom. 
You  might  hear  the  voices  of  men,  the  songs  of  women, 
and  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  happy  children ;  but  this 
was  sixty  centuries  ago!  Through  such  lapse  of  years 
only  the  stoutest  imagination  avails  to  find  its  way.  Yet 
here  it  is;  the  record  not  to  be  disputed.  Here  are  the 
voices  of  our  fellows  sounding  from  that  far  time,  and 
the  spell  of  our  common  humanity  is  upon  us  with  a 
charm  we  may  not  resist.  Since  that  day,  nearly  two 
hundred  generations,  as  men  reckon,  have  risen  per- 
chance and  disappeared,  and  here  at  last  are  we,  breath- 
ing the  vital  air,  watching  in  our  turn  the  glistening 
fields  of  summer,  even  as  did  they  of  Babylon's  forgot- 
ten plains.  Not  practical,  this  bit  of  clay?  No,  not 
practical;  we  cannot  eat  it;  we  cannot  burn  it;  we  can- 
not even  sell  it.  But  we  can  USE  it ;  we  are  using  it ;  it  is 
fascinating;  we  enjoy  it!,  and  what  more  practical  than 
that  which  gives  us  joy?  "We  have  opened  in  an  unex- 
pected place  a  window,  a  new  intellectual  horizon,  and 
the  view  is  interesting,  vast,  wonderful,  and  abiding. 
We  knew  that  behind  us  were  a  thousand  marching  gen- 
erations, and  lo!  we  see  them  on  the  way,  and  their  dim 
figures  live  and  move  and  speak  again.  A  good  oriental- 
ist before  this  assembly  would  give  us  a  year's  food  for 
thought  and  a  vision  to  last  us  the  rest  of  our  lives !  Is 
that  practical? 

People  who  are  concerned  alone  with  things  of  im- 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  109 

mediate  physical  use,  who  call  for  financial  or  as  they 
say  practical  return  for  every  effort,  may  open  their 
eyes,  widen  their  vision,  reflect  just  a  little,  if  that  be 
possible ;  and  realize,  once  for  all,  that  even  our  modern 
science,  which  has  so  transformed  the  world,  is,  to  your 
self -named  "  practical "  man,  in  its  very  nature,  essence, 
and  life,  as  impractical  as  poetry.  Why,  even  science 
dreams!  Science  has  visions;  science  sets  out  to  make 
visions  come  true ;  for  what  ?  For  ITS  OWN  HIGH  SAKE  ! 
For  invention  ?  No !  For  money  ?  No ;  for  knowledge ! 
Do  you  suppose  Franklin  tried  to  invent  lightning  rods, 
or  Faraday  dynamos  or  wireless  stations?  Not  for  a 
moment!  These  men  were  studying  electricity  and 
physics,  appealing  to  intelligent  people ;  pitied,  no  doubt, 
by  the  smug  practical  man  of  the  time.  Science  finds  the 
truth;  invention  puts  it  to  use;  but  without  science,  no 
invention ;  without  poor,  obscure,  toiling  science,  no  gaso- 
line; without  gasoline,  no  engine;  without  engine,  no 
Ford! 

Science  is  star-eyed;  she  treads  her  own  high  way  of 
investigation  and  research,  knowledge  her  ambition,  and 
truth  her  high  reward;  telephones,  electric  lights,  con- 
trol of  human  ills  —  these  but  the  incidents  of  her  pro- 
gress, the  by-products  of  her  patient,  ceaseless  toil. 
Science  counts  them  not. 

Take  another  illustration.  Who  is  the  most  distin- 
guished woman  on  earth  to-day?  Madame  Curie.  Who 
is  Madame  Curie?  Professor  of  physics  and  laboratory 
director  at  the  Sorbonne,  lecturer  to  the  school  for  girls 
at  Sevres,  the  town  whence  you  buy  your  finest  china.  In 
1903  Madame  Curie  shared  with  her  husband,  only  less 


i  io  On  the  Campus 

distinguished,  the  Nobel  Prize  for  that  year,  as  recog- 
nition of  her  researches  in  physics:  in  1911  she  alone 
received  the  Nobel  Prize  for  chemistry,  $40,000. 

What  had  she  been  doing?  Was  she  seeking  some- 
thing practical,  in  the  sense  of  the  street?  Did  she 
strive  to  discover  some  article  which,  when  found,  the 
world  entire  should  use  and  accordingly  must  buy  ?  Did 
she  seek  to  exploit  the  resources  of  her  country,  secur- 
ing control  of  natural  wealth,  and  so  enabling  herself 
and  friends  to  fix  for  years  the  price  of  some  essential 
commodity  ?  Not  at  all ;  not  one  of  these  things  did  she 
dream  of.  She  discovered  polonium  and  radium,  two 
most  obscure,  unheard-of  metals,  extracted  with  almost 
infinite  pains,  labor,  and  skill,  in  minute  amounts  from 
pitchblende,  a  mineral  found  in  mountainous  countries 
and  of  probably  volcanic  origin.  Of  radium,  the  more 
famous  of  these  metals,  there  is  perhaps  scarcely  an 
ounce  to  be  seen,  taken  all  together,  in  all  the  labora- 
tories of  the  world;  so  difficult  is  it  to  secure.  Yet 
radium  in  its  peculiar  properties  is  a  substance  fascinat- 
ing beyond  compare.  Why  ?  Because  it  modifies  all  our 
previous  theories  as  to  the  constitution  of  the  physical 
world.  Radium  gives  off  a  certain  peculiar  radiation; 
mysterious  particles  emanate  as  if  from  sources  inex- 
haustible. Go  down  to  the  physics  laboratory  at  the 
University  and  see  the  radium  clock.  I  have  seen  an 
audience  of  thousands  watching  in  breathless  interest 
the  rise  and  fall  of  those  golden  petals;  pulsating 
whether  we  watch  or  not,  pulsating  for  days  and  years 
it  may  be,  or  for  centuries  together,  as  if  to  realize  at 
last  the  dream  of  perpetual  motion ! 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  in 

Such  is  Madame  Curie 's  poem ;  such  is  her  gift  to  the 
world,  changing  our  vision  of  the  universe,  filling  it  more 
richly  with  a  new  splendor  and  unapproachable  beauty. 
Is  this  practical? 

I  have  said  that  Minnesota  women  would  be  charmed 
could  an  orientalist  tell  them  the  story  of  our  human 
past :  how  shall  they  not  delight  to  hear  a  man  of  science 
tell  them  of  a  woman  whose  researches  are  timeless,  in- 
terpreting, as  they  do,  past  and  present  and  future,  and 
glorifying  for  our  finite  minds,  not  the  world,  indeed,  but 
the  very  universe  Over  against  the  practicality  that  is 
evidently  threatening  our  social  life  I  set  with  confi- 
dence the  practicality  of  intellectual  life  and  interest, 
averring  that  while  this  will  not  do  everything,  it  should 
help. 

Another  human  interest  which  must,  more  and  more, 
be  set  against  the  material,  almost  purposeless  trend  and 
tendency  of  present  life  and  manner,  relates  to  beauty, 
the  beauty  of  art  and  its  manifold  expression.  Our  in- 
stinct for  beauty  is  as  old  as  that  for  action,  and  likely 
to  be  equally  enduring.  I  have  sometimes  heard  lec- 
turers express  their  wonder  that  astronomy  should  be 
the  most  ancient  science ;  that  men  of  the  early  recorded 
centuries  should  have  ignored  the  study  of  man,  the 
study  of  animals,  of  rocks,  of  the  very  soil  beneath  their 
feet,  and  have  given  attention  to  the  far-off  stars.  We 
do  study  the  soil,  but  we  have  come  to  it  last  of  all. 
The  reason,  I  think,  is  plain.  The  heavens  are  BEAUTIFUL  ! 
Primitive  man  was  overwhelmed  by  the  splendor  of  the 
slowly  moving  spectacle.  The  majestic  progress  of  the 
sun,  from  the  gorgeous  chambers  of  the  east  to  his 


ii2  On  the  Campus 

glorious  going  down,  and  the  moon  walking  in  bright- 
ness,—  these  wonderful  heavenly  objects  have  never 
failed  to  elicit  the  liveliest  interest  of  humanity.  Men 
who  must  needs  in  those  days  watch  their  flocks  by  night, 
did  in  the  long,  star-lit  silence,  discover  the  secrets  of 
the  skies. 

But  why?  Because,  as  I  verily  believe,  beauty  be- 
longs to  every  fraction  of  this  universe,  and  has  its 
eternal  place  in  us,  as  another  basal  instinct,  masterful 
as  that  for  action.  If,  as  is  maintained,  men  and  women 
of  science  are  not  impelled  by  hope  of  reward,  but  only 
by  love  of  truth,  I  believe  it  is  also  true  that  they  are 
wonderfully  swept  on  by  a  love  of  that  omnipresent 
beauty  confronting  them  in  every  field,  in  earth  and  sky 
and  air.  Professor  Tyndall,  in  his  famous  Belfast  ad- 
dress, brings  this  out  in  argument,  perhaps  unintended, 
and  therefore  yet  more  potent.  Perhaps  it  shall  one 
day  turn  out  as  Keats  has  told  us  that  beauty  is  truth, 
truth  beauty. 

Now,  all  our  art,  all  our  effort  at  beauty,  every  at- 
tempt of  our  hands  to  make  beauty  for  ourselves,  to  ex- 
press as  best  we  may  the  passion  that  stirs  our  souls, 
whether  by  color,  by  crowned  pillar,  by  music,  by 
drama,  or  by  poetic  form  of  speech,  every  such  effort  of 
human  genius  may  and  does  become  a  most  potent  factor 
in  the  life  of  everybody's  every  day.  These  also  shall 
help  us,  I  believe,  to  save  ourselves  and  our  children  in 
this  time  of  transition,  of  nervous  passion,  instability, 
unrest  that  surely,  at  this  moment,  puts  in  peril  the 
Republic  that  Lincoln  gave  his  life  to  save. 

In  a  new  book  which  I  have  recently  enjoyed,  the  au- 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  113 

thor,  Hon.  Arthur  J.  Balfour,  former  Prime  Minister 
of  England,  tells  us  how  the  fine  cycle  of  our  human 
interest  includes  three  things:  action,  knowledge,  ad- 
miration; we  act,  we  know,  we  admire.  This  seems  to 
me  not  only  an  elegant  summary,  but  it  presents  per- 
spective, and  gives  the  due  historic  order.  This  is  in 
fact  the  order  in  which  the  present  argument  has  to-day 
come  forward.  Action,  the  practical  in  the  narrow 
sense,  — •  this  is  the  all  too  dominant  spirit  of  this  time ; 
knowledge,  —  this  is  the  dream  of  the  student,  of 
Madame  Curie,  of  Langley,  of  every  toiler  who  made 
possible  Edison,  and  Graham  Bell,  and  Wright;  and 
finally,  admiration,  —  this  is  the  foundation  of  art  and 
of  all  the  joy  that  springs  from  the  appreciation  and 
apprehension  of  beauty.  To  complete  realization  of 
right  human  living  we  need  each  and  every  one  of  these 
phases.  You  may  begin  with  either;  action  may 
to  knowledge  and  knowledge  to  admiration;  or  ad- 
miration may  lead  to  either  of  the  other  two,  though 
less  likely.  But  the  point  I  bring  is  that  all  three  are 
human,  all  three  make  up  the  fullness  of  normal  human 
happy,  civilized,  enlightened  living. 

So  much  for  our  first  danger  and  some  of  the  possible 
antidotes:  now  let  us  see  about  the  second.  Here  are 
certain  facts. —  Notwithstanding  all  our  progress,  not- 
withstanding all  our  electric  lights  and  electric  cars, 
our  roads  and  cities,  our  schools  and  laws,  it  still  re- 
mains true  that  a  vast  segment  of  our  population  con- 
sists, and  will  probably  long  consist,  of  wage-earners. 
By  wage-earners  I  mean  men  who  are  laboring  from  day 
to  day  in  industries  whose  continuance  they  cannot,  do 


ii4  On  the  Campus 

not,  control.  Of  these  in  the  United  States  in  1910 
there  were  more  than  thirty-eight  millions! 

The  researches  of  students  indicate  that  in  favorable 
years,  year  in  and  year  out,  one-fourth  of  this  number, 
in  round  numbers  ten  million  wage-earners  in  our  coun- 
try have  not  sufficient  wage  to  meet,  not  the  requirement 
of  the  three  phases  of  human  interest  just  cited  as  con- 
stituting normal  human  living  —  not  that,  oh,  no!,  not 
that,  but  not  enough  for  the  basic  FIRST,  not  enough  for 
action,  not  enough  for  necessaries  of  actual  physical  life, 
—  shelter,  clothing,  and  food.  This  takes  no  account  of 
the  incompetent  poor  who  are  and  always  must  be  cared 
for,  because  for  one  reason  or  another,  fault  of  body,  or 
fault  of  mind,  incapable  of  self-support;  such  are  not 
here  mentioned.  Our  concern  is  with  the  normal  laborer 
only,  the  man  or  woman  who  could  and  would  properly 
maintain  himself  or  herself  and  those  in  dependence,  if 
wages  were  constant  and  sufficient. 

In  other  words,  in  the  richest  country  in  the  world, 
in  the  country  of  which  we  are  so  proud,  where  industry 
and  invention  so  rejoice  and  triumph,  in  this  country, 
there  are  millions  of  wage-earners  whose  income  in  any 
single  case  is  insufficient  that  a  man  shall  have  at  any 
one  time  sufficient  food,  sufficient  clothing,  and  suitable 
or  adequate  shelter  for  himself,  his  wife  and  two  or 
three  children;  this  says  nothing  of  insurance,  or  of 
accidents,  or  old  age.  Does  any  one  suppose  that  in 
presence  of  the  constant  display  of  superfluous  wealth, 
made  by  large  numbers  of  our  people,  in  presence  of  the 
wide-spread  idleness  of  thousands  who  do  no  useful  ser- 
vice, simply  because  labor  is  not  necessary  to  their  daily 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  115 

bread,  —  does  any  one  imagine  that  in  face  of  such  con- 
ditions this  very  large  portion  of  our  population  can  re- 
main very  long  content? 

Abraham  Lincoln  did  indeed  in  1863  free  three  mil- 
lion slaves;  but  the  black  men  were  at  least  clothed 
and  fed  and  housed,  and  kept  in  health ;  other  conditions 
had  made  them  useless,  unprofitable.  Our  underpaid 
are  both  black  and  white,  possibly  in  about  equal  num- 
bers. Lincoln  hardly  imagined  that  fifty  years  after  his 
master  stroke  we  should  contemplate  the  spectacle  of  ten 
or  even  five  millions  of  our  fellows,  so  underpaid,  as  to 
be  under-fed,  insufficiently  clad,  and  badly  housed.  Can 
we  placidly  contemplate  such  a  spectacle  as  this,  the 
country  full  of  riches,  and  still  imagine  there  is  no  dan- 
ger ?  Believe  it  not ! 

Thousands  of  these  toilers  are  women,  girls  who  live 
in  cities,  clerks  in  great  stores,  toilers  in  great  factories, 
drudges  in  great  hotels  and  business  palaces,  even  teach- 
ers in  schools,  I  am  told,  who  have  only  meagerest  wages, 
hardly  sufficient  to  keep  soul  and  body  together;  not 
enough  for  action,  to  say  nothing  of  the  other  factors  in 
normal  life,  as  suggested  by  Mr.  Balfour.  Think  of  a 
woman  deprived  not  only  of  all  opportunity  of  meeting 
her  desire  for  knowledge,  but  deprived  of  all  means  of 
gratifying  her  innate  passion  for  beauty  and  starving 
from  day  to  day  beside!  Is  there  no  peril  to  the  Re- 
public in  these  things,  no  problems  here  like  those  which 
Abraham  Lincoln  gave  his  life  to  solve? 

But,  you  say,  we  do  not  like  this:  it  begins  to  grow 
serious;  it  is  too  grave  for  our  societies  of  women.  I 
hope  not.  In  Iowa,  the  other  day,  I  heard  President 


n6  On  the  Campus 

Wilson  talking  to  thousands  of  people,  men,  women,  and 
children.  In  his  address  there  was  a  tone  of  evident 
alarm  of  dangers  from  without.  The  President  shall  be 
our  watchman  there.  But  to-day  we  are  confronted  by 
perils  at  home  in  which  men  and  women  and  children 
are  concerned;  and  in  these  the  organized  associations 
of  women  can,  I  think,  accomplish  much. 

The  first  problem  cited  a  little  while  ago  concerns  the 
right  training  and  employment  of  our  children.  It  is 
trite  that  women  are  confessedly  specialists  in  this  field. 
The  direct  individual  influence  is  here  so  great  that  we 
are  apt  to  esteem  association,  organization,  unnecessary, 
or  at  least  of  small  importance.  Furthermore,  women 
are  by  nature  conservative  and  very  keen  discerners  of 
moral  and  esthetic  values.  They  realize  that  an  electric 
light,  beautiful  as  it  is,  owes  its  whole  value  to  the 
circumstance  that  it  enables  us  to  SEE:  vision  is  better 
than  electric  light!  The  touring-car  is  valuable  only  as 
it  enables  us  to  journey  in  the  open  air;  but  its  value 
fades  immensely  if  we  KNOW  nothing  of  where  we  are 
going  or  what  we  shall  see  or  where  we  shall  arrive.  For 
all  these  reasons  the  problem  stated  lies  with  women. 

In  the  latest  biography  of  Lincoln,  a  conversation  is 
cited  in  which  Lincoln  tells  what  his  mother  did  for 
him.  Did  she  show  him  the  kingdoms  of  this  earth  and 
their  tinsel  glory  ?  Oh,  no ;  she  was  poor  and  lived  amid 
the  cabin-housed  pioneers  of  the  prairie,  and  died  be- 
fore the  lad  was  ten  years  old;  no;  she  read  to  him  the 
ancient  stories  of  the  Bible,  stories  whose  style  came  out 
later  in  the  Gettysburg  address  and  the  second  inaugural, 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  world,  classics  in  the  litera- 
ture of  the  race ! 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  117 

The  individual  influence  of  woman  is  great;  but  in 
organization,  by  their  skill  in  shaping  local  sentiment, 
forming  public  opinion,  and  so  purifying  public  taste, 
they  combine  individual  influence,  and  really  create  an 
atmosphere  in  which  culture  and  refinement  have  nat- 
urally their  place,  and  fine  appreciation.  Instinctively, 
I  think,  the  women 's  clubs  turn  the  attention  of  them- 
selves and  others  to  things  pure  and  beautiful.  They 
affect  letters  and  music  and  art.  They  are  housekeepers, 
and  they  go  in  for  municipal  housekeeping,  for  clean 
streets  and  lawns,  for  parks  and  trees  and  flowers :  they 
study  moral  conditions,  and  seek  the  social  purity  of 
ward  and  street,  and,  in  my  judgment,  these  things  are 
immensely  practical;  they  shape  the  environment  in 
which  our  young  men  and  women  grow  to  life's  estate. 

It  is  to  this  same  end  that,  of  late,  we  have  urged  vo- 
cational studies  in  public  schools,  in  schools  specially  en- 
dowed as  at  Gary.  These  things  are  fine ;  they  will  help. 
Only  do  not  imagine  they  solve  the  problem.  We  may 
not  discuss  the  matter  here.  It  is  well  to  train  a  boy  to 
be  a  blacksmith  or  a  farmer,  but  he  must  also  in  the  Re- 
public be  trained  to  live :  it  is  well  to  train  a  man  to  be 
an  operator  in  a  mill,  but  he  must  also  be  trained  to 
care  for  his  wife  and  children  and  make  them  rationally 
happy. 

This  brings  us  now,  once  more,  in  sight  of  our  sec- 
ond problem,  the  problem  of  the  man  who  labors  with 
his  hands,  especially  of  that  fourth  man;  every  fourth 
man,  remember,  who  does  not  have  wage  enough  to  live. 
All  your  women's  clubs,  all  your  literature  and  poetry, 
all  your  beautiful  things,  amount  to  nothing  to  him  — 
nay,  are  simple  mockery,  so  long  as  he  does  not  have 


u8  On  the  Campus 

enough  from  his  earnings  to  see  himself  and  family 
properly  fed  and  clothed  and  sheltered,  all  at  the  same 
time !  What  can  women 's  clubs  do  with  a  case  like  this  ? 
Two  things:  first,  find  out  the  facts  in  specific  cases; 
and  second,  report  the  facts ;  study  them  and  aid,  if  pos- 
sible, scholars  and  employers  alike,  who  are  striving  in 
school  and  factory,  in  office  and  in  mine,  in  legislative 
halls,  to  bring  about  a  happier  condition. 

It  is  said  that  the  minimum  annual  wage  on  which  a 
sober  laboring  man  may  live  decently  at  this  moment  and 
care  for  an  economic  wife  and  three  children,  sending 
these  to  school,  is  eight  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars. 
One-fourth  of  the  laborers  in  this  country  fall  below 
this  minimum.  The  situation  makes  one  sick  at  heart. 
The  women  of  Minnesota  can  do  so  much,  have  done  so 
much,  will  they  not,  as  opportunity  offers,  help  also  in 
this  particular  field  until  in  every  community,  to  the 
largest  extent  possible,  every  man  of  toil  can  stand  erect, 
proud  of  his  own  self-respect,  his  children  able  to  share 
on  equal  terms  with  those  of  his  employer  in  all  the 
privileges  of  the  public  schools,  and  the  opportunities 
to  which  these  open  the  gates  on  every  side  ?  The  con- 
ditions are  right;  they  will  at  last,  they  must  at  length, 
prevail.  Only  so  shall  the  Republic,  the  Common- 
wealth, be  safe. 

I  have  spoken  of  legislative  action ;  nine  States  of  the 
Union  have  now  minimum  wage  laws.  Minnesota  is  on 
the  list.  Every  women's  club  in  Minnesota  should  have 
a  copy  of  this  law  and  know  the  situation. 

And  so,  in  conclusion,  I  come  back  to  the  original  pro- 
gramme of  Sorosis.  I  think  I  have  shown  you  that  it  is 


Culture  and  Women's  Clubs  119 

practical  in  the  higest  sense;  from  start  to  finish;  from 
the  first  item,  which  calls  for  the  study  of  art,  to  the 
last,  which  asks  after  the  conditions  of  working- women ; 
it  suits  the  conditions  of  to-day  with  an  exactitude  that 
led  me  at  the  outset  to  use  the  word  prophetic.  The  ac- 
tivity among  us  that  is  practical  because  profitable  will 
take  care  of  itself ;  but  these  other  interests  that  are  prac- 
tical because  serviceable  to  humanity  —  for  these  I  would 
enlist  the  sympathy  of  the  women's  clubs  of  Minnesota 
and  of  all  our  western  States. 

Our  problems  generally  originate  in  older  communi- 
ties; they  originate  in  the  East;  and  the  East  shall  no 
doubt  help  in  our  investigation.  But,  as  in  Abraham 
Lincoln's  day,  the  final  solution,  the  happy  solution,  may 
yet  be  furnished  by  our  energetic,  optimistic,  more 
youthful  and  sympathetic  West. 

"Men  look  to  the  East  for  the  dawning  things,  for  the  light  of  a 

rising  Sun, 
But  they  look  to  the  West,  the  crimson  West,  for  the  things  that 

are  done,  are  done! 
The  Eastward  sun  is  a  new-made  hope,  from  the  dark  of  the 

night  distilled; 
But  the  Westward  sun  is  a  sunset  sun,  is  the  sun  of  a  hope 

fulfilled." 


THE  GIFTS  OF  SCIENCE 

Dull  indeed  must  he  be  to  all  that  makes  for  strength 
and  beauty  of  architectural  proportion,  elegance  of  ma- 
terial and  grace  of  structure,  who  fails  gladly  to  appre- 
ciate and  rightly  to  prize  the  beautiful  building  we  cele- 
brate on  this  happy  summer  day.  These  massive  walls, 
these  pleasant  aisles,  beautifully  lighted  and  well  ap- 
pointed laboratories,  must  excite  the  admiration  of  every 
man  who  loves  the  builder's  art,  especially  when  that  art 
is  consecrated  to  the  service  of  high  intellectual  endeavor. 
On  the  fortunes  of  this  hour,  I  am,  therefore,  well  per- 
mitted to  congratulate  the  people  of  South  Dakota,  the 
regents,  the  faculty,  and  the  students  of  this  University, 
and  all  friends  of  education  and  science  everywhere,  and 
to  voice  the  earnest  hope  that  the  meaning  and  purpose 
of  the  effort  here  culminating  in  completed  physical 
appliance  may  not  only  not  be  missed  by  any  one  here 
present,  but  may  in  very  fact  be  an  inspiration  and  im- 
pulse for  days  and  years  to  come. 

Were  a  stranger  to  our  civilization  and  the  present 
state  of  human  learning  to  visit  us  this  afternoon  and 
be  suddenly  introduced  to  the  scene  before  us,  his  won- 
der we  may  well  imagine.  Show  him  these  elaborate 
halls,  these  beautiful  rooms,  and  all  this  mechanical 
equipment;  tell  him  the  cost  of  this  building;  tell  him 
its  purpose  —  for  nothing  else  than  to  further  research 
among  plants  and  animals;  to  discover  the  constitution 


The  Gifts  of  Science  121 

of  the  surface  of  the  earth  and  to  spread  the  knowledge 
of  these  things  among  men  —  tell  him  so  much,  and  such 
a  visitor  would  certainly  experience  great  surprise.  Tell 
him  that  here  is  something  new:  that  study  here  is  all 
apart  from  literature,  from  the  philosophies  and  human- 
ities, and  his  surprise  will  heighten  still  the  more. 

Tell  him  that  this  is  only  a  single  instance:  that  in 
every  State,  in  a  hundred  cities,  the  same  thing  is  doing, 
has  been  done:  and  his  surprise  will  be  deepened  into 
wonder  as  he  learns  that  the  people  of  this  country  and 
of  the  world  yearly  are  spending  millions  of  dollars  at 
the  behest  of  what  men  call  science,  in  a  demand  never 
satisfied,  ever  increasing;  insatiate  as  time,  unsatisfied 
as  human  ambition  itself. 

If  our  visitor  be  an  intelligent  man,  as  he  must  be  to 
appreciate  all  that  we  show  him,  his  sense  of  astonish- 
ment will  forthwith  provoke  the  inquiry :  '  *  What  means 
such  vast  expenditure?  What  is  your  expectancy  in 
such  investment?  And  what  returns  are  they,  which 
those  who  thus  spend  their  treasure  have  received  or 
hope  to  receive  to  justify  an  outlay  so  lavish,  persistent, 
and  yet  seemingly  for  ends  so  far  remote  from  humanity 
and  its  purposes,  its  enjoyments,  hopes  and  fears?"  He 
will  say:  "Here  is  no  vast  library,  stored  with  the 
learning  of  the  ages;  here  are  no  panoramic  halls  in 
which  the  art  of  busy  centuries  may  charm  the  appre- 
ciative soul.  Here  is  only  an  appliance  for  the  study  of 
the  lower  creation,  even  the  lowest;  apparatus  for  the 
investigation  of  plants  and  these  the  most  insignificant; 
what  profits,  then,  such  study  and  what  advantage  has 
science  that  it  should  receive  consideration  so  universal, 


122  On  the  Campus 

patronage  so  munificent  and  endowment  so  unlimited 
from  the  treasury  of  the  State  ?  Surely  your  science  is 
immensely  indebted,  but  what  has  she  to  show  on  the 
credit  side?  What  has  science  done?  What  is  she 
doing  in  the  world? 

Now  these  questions  are  well  put:  they  are  real,  and 
their  consideration  may  be  well  worth  our  attentive 
examination,  even  though  the  questioner,  as  here  related, 
be  hypothetical  and  imaginary.  Nay,  the  questioner  has 
his  place  among  us ;  there  are  men  quite  conversant  with 
modern  life,  who  even  yet  are  inclined  to  state  the  prob- 
lem in  the  query  of  old:  "To  what  purpose  is  this 
waste?" 

In  the  brief  space  assigned  me  on  the  present  pro- 
gramme, I  may  not  hope  to  answer  such  questions  in 
their  fullest  scope.  The  answer  is  vast,  far-reaching  as 
our  present  human  experience,  and  touches  in  one  way  or 
another  the  whole  compass  of  modern  living.  In  fact, 
the  answer  is  two-fold: 

In  part,  open  and  read  of  all  men;  in  part  now  only 
dimly  seen,  to  be  reckoned  up  only  by  some  future  stu- 
dent who  shall  prove  capable  of  weighing  and  rightly 
estimating  the  great  impulses  in  the  intellectual  progress 
of  mankind.  The  return  for  our  investment  is,  there- 
fore, two-fold,  just  as  there  are  two  ways  in  which  any 
obligation  may  be  met  —  the  debt  may  be  paid  in  kind, 
or  it  may  be  resolved  in  service  rendered. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  science  pays  back  her  cost  in 
kind;  dollar  for  dollar,  a  thousand-fold.  Let  us  look 
at  one  or  two  examples. 

The  chemist  taught  Henry  Bessemer  of  England  the 


The  Gifts  of  Science  123 

constitution  of  English  iron  ore,  and  the  difference  be- 
tween iron  and  steel.  Bessemer  accepted  the  conclusions 
of  the  chemist  and  between  1856  and  1858  spent  some 
fifty  thousand  dollars  in  accord  with  the  behests  of  sci- 
ence in  an  effort  to  convert  the  English  ores  into  steel. 
I  need  not  tell  you  the  result.  Out  of  that  bit  of  history 
comes  the  circumstance  that  this  is  the  age  of  steel.  In 
the  year  1901  the  production  of  Bessemer  steel  in  the 
United  States  alone  amounted  to  seven  millions  of  tons, 
worth,  say,  two  hundred  millions  of  dollars. 

We  might  in  this  way  approach  a  hundred  sources  of 
human  wealth.  In  the  laboratory  of  the  chemist  every 
terrestrial  problem  is  assailed.  Investigation  goes  on 
forever.  No  problem,  perhaps,  has  ever  been  worked  out ; 
but  many  a  one,  as  the  problem  of  iron  and  steel,  has 
been  brought  to  an  absolutely  practical  solution.  The 
State  of  South  Dakota  is  a  gold-producing  State  of  no 
secondary  importance,  but  the  greatest  mining  company 
in  the  Black  Hills  owes  its  whole  success  to  a  practical 
application  of  a  chemical  problem,  first  wrought  out  in 
the  laboratories  of  Europe,  by  which  low-grade  ores  may 
be  handled  with  profit,  as  in  the  famous  Homestake 
mines. 

The  investment  which  the  world  has  made  in  chemical 
laboratories,  and  in  chemists,  too,  has  been  more  re- 
munerative in  dollars  and  cents  than  anyone  of  us  can 
possibly  realize.  If  the  alchemist  did  not  find  the  philos- 
opher's stone,  modern  chemistry  has  at  least  filled  the 
world  with  wealth.  The  plain  fact  remains  that  every 
art  and  every  industry  now  in  vogue  among  men  will  at 
some  point,  if  not  at  every  point,  gladly  acknowledge  its 


124  On  the  Campus 

obligation  to  the  recent  science  of  the  world;  the  art  of 
the  dyer,  the  art  of  the  weaver,  the  art  of  the  metallur- 
gist, that  of  the  toiler  in  wood  or  stone,  the  art  of  him 
who  tills  the  soil  until  Dakota  is  the  granary  of  the 
world,  —  everywhere,  in  every  industry  practiced  among 
civilized  men,  that  which  is  newest  is  best,  and  that 
which  is  best  is  the  outcome  of  recent  research. 

But  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  the  debt  of  science  to 
the  world  is  paid  in  service.  Apollo  must  needs  guide 
the  flocks  of  Admetus.  ' '  Whoever  will  be  greatest  among 
you,  let  him  be  your  minister."  But  even  here  the 
wealth  of  material,  which  rises  in  illustration,  makes 
pertinent  selection  difficult  indeed.  Everywhere  science 
serves:  discovery  passing  into  invention,  research  result- 
ing in  appliance. 

Modern  electrical  development  is  the  triumph  and 
boast  of  the  age  in  which  we  live.  It  is  as  yet  in  its  in- 
fancy only.  We  as  yet  simply  know  nothing  about  the 
possibilities  of  the  force  which  stands  revealed  in  light 
and  heat  and  electric  stream.  Our  knowledge  of  elec- 
tricity dates  from  the  laboratory  of  Michael  Faraday, 
who  was  supported  by  the  Royal  Institution  of  London. 
A  few  thousand  pounds  on  the  debit  side ;  but  who  shall 
estimate  the  service  which  this  single  achievement  of  sci- 
entific research  has  already  brought  to  mankind?  Rich 
and  poor  alike  share  in  its  benediction.  By  it  the  laborer 
passes  to  his  toil;  before  its  light  the  darkness  of  mid- 
night flees  and  cities  dwell  in  perpetual  day.  By  it  the 
miner  drives  his  drill  and  with  it  lights  the  walls  of  glit- 
tering ore  in  brightness  that  far  outshines  Aladdin  and 
his  lamp.  By  it  we  hear  the  voices  of  distant  friends  as 


The  Gifts  of  Science  125 

though  they  spoke  beside  us;  by  it  the  nations  of  the 
earth  are  drawn  together  by  instant  communication  and 
mutual  understanding,  and  have  even  now  entered  upon 
a  merger  that  shall  never  be  dissolved.  The  ticking  of 
Marconi's  wires  across  the  ocean  wastes  in  a  stillness  un- 
broken from  eternity  may  yet  usher  in  the  reign  of  uni- 
versal peace.  What  expenditure  of  dollars  shall  reckon 
up  a  service  such  as  this,  or  to  what  value  will  you  liken 
it?  Had  men  gone  to  the  gods  for  gifts  they  had  never 
framed  their  lips  to  ask  for  half  so  much ;  nor  had  it  en- 
tered into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  such  richness  — 
in  comfort  and  joy  and  blessedness  —  as  at  all  among  the 
possibilities  of  this  terrestrial  life. 

But  this  is  only  a  glimpse  of  what  physical  science  has 
done  or  is  doing  for  our  world  and  in  the  most  direct  and 
tangible  ways.  Biologic  science  has  been  in  its  way 
equally  munificent.  In  1889  the  German  government 
subsidized  the  optical  workshop  of  Carl  Zeiss  in  Jena 
that  he  might  perfect  a  glass  that  should  enable  the  mi- 
croscopist  better  to  do  his  work.  The  consequent  per- 
fecting of  microscopic  lenses,  taken  with  a  fortunate  con- 
temporaneous discovery  of  the  delicate  application  of  the 
coal  tar  series  of  colors,  has  made  it  possible  for  the  stu- 
dent of  life  and  its  processes  to  enter  upon  investigation 
with  a  thoroughness  that,  were  it  not  so  familiar,  would 
appear  nothing  short  of  marvelous.  Not  only  do  we  bet- 
ter understand  the  structure  of  all  living  things,  —  we 
have  to-day  even  a  pathology  of  the  white  corpuscles  of 
the  human  blood,  —  but  all  the  phenomena  of  life  itself 
are  so  clearly  understood  that  we  condition  its  manifesta- 
tion almost  as  we  choose.  The  very  minutest  forms  of 


126  On  the  Campus 

life  are  before  us  and  we  have  learned  —  0  strangest 
chapter  in  the  book  of  knowledge !  —  that  these  minutest 
microscopic  things  are  intimately  bound  up  in  everything 
else  that  goes  on  beneath  the  sun. 

They  bring  bane  or  blessing,  life  or  death,  and  surely 
not  the  least  service  which  biologic  science  has  in  these 
late  years  conferred  upon  humanity  is  to  be  found  in  the 
comprehension  and  mastery  of  some  of  the  most  terrible 
diseases  that  have  ever  vexed  the  race.  In  1854  Asiatic 
cholera  swept  the  whole  country,  away  up  the  Mississippi 
valley,  not  sparing  even  the  poor  prairie  settlements  of 
early  Iowa.  In  1869  the  same  dread  malady  threatened 
us  again.  The  whole  nation  was  in  fear.  I  was  but  a 
youth  in  college  and  our  president,  good  man  that  he 
was,  sought  to  reassure  us.  He  read  us  the  ninety-first 
Psalm:  "Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  the  terror  by 
night,  nor  for  the  arrow  that  flieth  by  day;  nor  for  the 
pestilence  that  walketh  in  the  darkness;  nor  for  the  de- 
struction that  wasteth  at  noonday ;  a  thousand  shall  fall 
at  thy  side  and  ten  thousand  at  thy  right  hand ;  but  it 
shall  not  come  nigh  thee,"  —  and  we  were  all,  if  possible, 
more  frightened  than  before.  We  were  not  reassured, 
we  were  alarmed.  We  saw  no  comfort  in  the  thought 
that  a  thousand  should  fall  at  our  side  and  ten  thousand 
at  our  right  hand;  even  if  individuals  were  spared,  a 
large  population  would  be  swept  away.  Yet  this  was  the 
best  we  could  do :  be  brave,  be  truthful,  do  righteousness 
and  escape.  It  never  occurred  to  us,  that  we  need  never 
have  cholera  at  all;  that  cholera  could  be  checked,  yea 
absolutely  suppressed,  stamped  out,  if  men  were  only 
wise.  Men  were  all  their  lifetime  subject  to  bondage 


The  Gifts  of  Science 


127 


through  fear,  and  the  plague  or  the  cholera  or  the  black 
death  swept  them  from  the  earth  in  millions.  But  who 
fears  cholera  now  ?  Even  yellow  fever  is  controlled  and 
will  one  day  be  eradicated  even  in  its  miasmatic  haunts. 
Our  appeal  is  from  dirty  Cuba  to  clean  Cuba ;  from  filthy 
Porto  Rico  to  Porto  Rico  washed  and  redeemed.  Twenty 
years  ago  seven  per  cent  of  mothers  died  of  puerperal 
fever,  and  the  mortality  in  diphtheria  was  seventy-five 
per  cent ;  to-day  the  mortality  among  mothers  is  said  to  be 
less  than  one-twentieth  of  one  per  cent  and  that  of  diph- 
theria less  than  seven  per  cent.  And  who  shall  estimate 
the  incalculable  service  rendered  to  the  world  by  antisep- 
tic surgery:  gangrene  has  been  well-nigh  banished  from 
the  hospitals  of  the  world  and  surgical  operations  are 
every  day  performed  with  absolute  safety,  which  in  days 
past  we  had  never  dared  dream  of  undertaking. 

These  are  some  of  the  ways  in  which  modern  science 
repays  the  world  for  her  cost ;  these  are  some  of  the  vis- 
ible, tangible  dividends  shared  in  by  everybody,  and  to 
greater  or  less  extent  patent  to  us  all.  But  there  is  an- 
other side  of  our  modern  human  life  where  the  contribu- 
tions of  science  have  been  of  no  less  tremendous  moment. 
Great  as  has  been  the  service  of  scientific  labor  in  the 
world  of  industry,  the  world  of  economics,  the  healing 
art,  even  greater  yet  has  been  its  influence  in  the  world 
of  thought.  We  are  too  near  in  time  to  estimate  this  ser- 
vice at  its  full,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  contributions 
of  modern  science  to  human  thinking  have  been  not  only 
immense  in  themselves,  but  in  all  other  lines  of  intellec- 
tual effort  have  been,  as  we  shall  see,  absolutely  revolu- 
tionary. 


128  On  the  Campus 

The  great  fact  of  human  development  is  the  march  of 
mind,  the  problem  of  the  ages  has  been  the  quickening  of 
the  human  spirit.  History  culminates  in  those  particu- 
lar periods  when  large  numbers  of  men  become  suddenly 
conscious  of  some  new  aspect  of  truth,  some  new  view  of 
their  own  relations  to  the  world,  to  each  other,  to  the  uni- 
verse entire.  The  coming  of  the  Christ  was  such  a  period. 
The  renaissance  was  such  another  period,  and  we  who 
have  lived  during  the  last  forty  years  have  been  passing, 
all  unconscious  it  may  be,  through  another  period  no  less 
wonderful  in  scope  and  influence  upon  the  future.  I  be- 
lieve that  when  the  historian  of  the  years  to  come  —  a 
much-contemplated  individual,  it  is  true,  to  whose  judg- 
ment we  perchance  too  often  make  appeal  —  when  that 
future  historian  comes  to  list  the  great  turning-points  in 
the  history  of  human  thought,  he  will  name  the  greatest 
of  all,  of  course,  His  coming  from  whom  our  era  hails; 
then  the  taking  of  Constantinople  by  the  Turks  in  1453 ; 
then  the  publication  of  Darwin's  "Origin  of  Species*'  in 
1859.  Certainly  no  other  modern  event  has  had  such 
pronounced  effect  on  every  phase  of  human  thought. 
The  aspect  of  nature  suggested  in  Darwin's  book  has  af- 
fected in  profoundest  fashion  everything  else :  literature, 
education,  philosophy,  history,  art,  religious  faith.  Let 
us  consider  this  just  for  a  moment.  Putting  aside  now 
the  vast  volume  of  literature  dealing  with  the  topics 
particularly  involved,  think  how  almost  the  entire  energy 
of  the  enlightened  world  has  been  turned  for  many  years 
to  topics  suggested  by  the  scientific  impulse.  Even  those 
who  affect  belles  lettres  pure  and  simple  are  not  unin- 
fluenced by  the  common  sweep,  from  Browning,  and 


The  Gifts  of  Science  129 

especially  Tennyson,  to  John  Fiske;  from  Daudet  to 
Tolstoi  and  Maeterlinck.  Without  modern  science  "In 
Memoriam"  could  not  have  been  written,  nor  could 
Maeterlinck  have  ever  dreamed  of  "Destiny."  In  edu- 
cation, to  say  nothing  of  the  place  which  scientific  studies 
have  in  the  curricula  of  the  world,  we  may  note  the  al- 
most universal  adoption  of  the  so-called  scientific  method, 
the  laboratory  method,  a  leaven  that  now  leavens  the 
whole  lump.  Even  the  law,  in  all  the  better  schools  of 
our  country,  is  now  taught  by  the  study  of  cases,  as  the 
naturalist  studies  types,  cases  that  have  been  presented 
and  passed  upon  by  the  great  courts,  and  the  principle 
of  the  law  is  deduced  from  the  conduct  of  decisions. 
And  what  shall  we  say  of  child-study  and  the  entire  ef- 
fort of  recent  educational  theorists  who  base  all  hope  of 
educational  progress  upon  the  knowledge  of  the  natural 
history  of  the  child?  The  child  is  recognized  as  a  part 
of  nature,  and  the  effort  is  making  to  bring  him  into  har- 
mony with  nature. 

In  philosophy  the  revolution  has  been  yet  more  re- 
markable, more  absolute,  and  more  complete.  The  old- 
time  metaphysics,  based  upon  introspection  only,  has  dis- 
appeared. In  the  older  sense  there  is  almost  no  philoso- 
phy, save  as  presented  in  the  history  of  successive  schools 
of  human  guessing.  Not  that  there  is  no  philosophizing : 
philosophy  has  been  lost  in  psychology  and  a  dozen  other 
things,  and  psychology,  when  scientific,  is  little  else  than 
physiology,  the  physiology  of  the  nervous  system,  with 
definite  experimental  study  of  the  special  senses,  such 
mapping  of  the  surface  of  the  brain,  in  fact,  as  our 
knowledge  will  permit;  with  hopeful  expectation  of  a 


130  On  the  Campus 

comparative  psychology  in  which  the  primary  forms  of 
human  mentality  may  be  compared  with  the  psychologi- 
cal processes  discoverable  in  creatures  at  our  feet;  or, 
philosophy  finds  exercise  in  the  deep  research  of  theoretic 
chemistry  or  physics  where  atoms  and  ions  are  mar- 
shaled, flitting  to  and  fro  in  armies,  myriads,  all  in  a 
world  so  real  yet  unseen  save  on  the  horizon  of  the  intel- 
lectual eye.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  nothing  so  kindles 
the  imagination  as  physical  research.  Says  Professor 
Trowbridge,  recently:  " There  is  a  path  of  human  in- 
quiry, which  leads  somewhere  into  the  open,  but  that 
path  is  into  the  world  of  the  infinitely  little. "  But  the 
infinitely  little  we  may  never  hope  to  see,  or  weigh,  we 
may  realize  it  only  in  the  realm  of  thought  —  and  it  does 
appear  as  if  the  constitution  of  the  physical  world  were 
yet  to  be  seen,  if  seen  at  all,  mirrored  in  the  clear  deeps 
of  the  human  soul. 

On  the  ethical  side,  sociology  and  all  the  various  phases 
of  economic  science  have  fairly  filled  the  field,  supplanted 
even  the  ethics  itself  of  a  dozen  years  ago.  But  the  con- 
tribution on  the  part  of  science  here  in  method,  the 
analogy  in  arrangement  and  presentation  of  fact,  or  the 
derivation  of  general  laws  from  instances  established, 
constitutes  only  the  smallest  part  of  the  real  obligation. 
The  great  advance  which  all  forms  of  social  and  histori- 
cal study  derive  from  modern  scientific  influence  comes 
from  the  changed  point  of  view,  a  change  as  great  or 
even  greater  than  that  induced  by  Copernicus  in  the  sci- 
ence of  his  day,  and  in  fact  not  unlike  it.  He  shifted 
the  centre  of  the  visible  universe ;  we,  anthropocentric  in 
our  conceit,  who  fancied  ourselves  in  the  centre  of  all 


The  Gifts  of  Science  131 

worlds,  find  the  whole  race  instead  swept  on,  part  and 
parcel  of  an  endless  flux,  whose  origin  we  know  not, 
whose  issue  must  be  good  and  good  alone.  Good  is  here, 
and  science  knows  no  retrogression;  only  the  further 
perfection  of  that  which  has  been  approved.  The  great 
contribution  of  science  is  the  law  of  growth,  more  or  less 
obscured  perhaps  by  the  term  evolution,  but  a  fact  never- 
theless, which  has  found  acceptance  in  every  intellectual 
workshop  of  the  world.  We  discuss  the  growth  of  insti- 
tutions, the  growth  of  art,  the  growth  of  nations,  the 
growth  of  worlds;  even  the  "Kingdom  of  Heaven"  is 
like  unto  "a  grain  of  mustard  seed,"  a  living,  growing 
thing.  The  universe  itself  becomes  an  unfolding  flower, 
blooming  by  time 's  eternal  stream,  and  sunlit  by  a  glory 
of  harmony  and  order  and  beauty. 

This  new  concept  of  things  that  are  made  has  changed, 
in  fact,  the  outlook  of  the  world,  the  possibilities  of  the 
world  as  we  see  them,  the  very  hope  of  the  world.  It  will 
serve  to  prevent,  we  trust,  forever,  that  strange  tendency 
which  has  marked  every  preceding  period  in  human  his- 
tory, a  tendency  to  lapse,  to  become  acquiescent,  inert, 
moribund.  Philosophy,  literature,  religion,  even  our 
own  Christianity  —  all  tend  to  sink  to  one  dead  level  of 
mediocrity,  and  to  stay  there  through  a  thousand  years. 
But  a  growing  thing  may  not  so  cease.  Not  only  has  life 
by  no  means  reached  perfection,  it  will  reach  perfection 
never.  Our  modern  conception  of  the  world  demands  an 
infinite  future.  And  yet  in  the  organic  world,  every 
new  characteristic  as  it  appears  has  before  it  the  possi- 
bility of  a  perfection  in  its  own  direction;  that  is,  per- 
fect adaptation  to  all  terrestrial  conditions.  Once  the 


132  On  the  Campus 

vegetation  of  the  earth,  perchance  was  all  in  form  of 
simple  cells.  One-celled  plants  made  up  the  gardens  of 
the  primeval  sea  and  terrestrial  plants  were  none.  But 
the  fact  that  those  one-celled  plants  could  yet  divide 
made  possible  a  plant  of  two  cells,  of  myriad  uncounted 
cells.  Once  the  world  of  plants  was  reproduced  by  one- 
celled  spores  alone;  but  the  spore  in  its  development 
might  not  rest  until  it  should  form  part  and  centre  of 
the  seed.  Nor  less  the  seed  could  it  be  perfect  until  for 
its  own  sowing,  dispersal,  provision  had  been  made  and 
even  nutrition  for  the  young  embryo  that  it  bears.  The 
world  of  animals  now  appears,  and  once  the  relation  of 
the  plant  to  the  race  of  animals  attains  full  recognition 
and  the  leaf  —  the  sporophyl  —  is  changed  again;  rest 
it  may  not  until  it  breathe  with  odor,  blaze  in  color,  or 
bewitch  in  endless  shifting  form  —  become,  in  fact,  a 
flower.  The  flower  may  not  cease  along  the  strange  path- 
way of  its  creation  until  its  intimacy  with  some  single 
creature  —  a  wasp  in  the  case  of  the  fig,  a  humming  bird 
or  a  moth  in  the  case  of  the  orchid  or  the  yucca  —  its  in- 
timacy becomes  so  absolute  that  neither  can  exist  without 
the  other;  we  have  symbiosis,  and  differentiation  is  lim- 
ited by  its  own  perfection.  And  so  our  science  bids  us 
well  perceive  that  if  humanity  has  been  the  culmination 
of  all  our  mighty  past,  and  no  one  questions  that,  that  is 
a  fact,  then  the  only  possible  outcome  of  our  human  fu- 
ture is  the  perfection  of  man  in  those  his  peculiar  charac- 
teristics which  are  yet  manifestly  incomplete;  and  since 
it  is  evident  that  for  long  ages  differentiation  has  been 
less  concerned  in  the  modifying  of  man's  bodily  struc- 
ture, we  are  obliged  to  conclude  that  his  future  history 


The  Gifts  of  Science  133 

must  be  psychic,  its  only  limit  psychic  perfection  in  all 
its  wonderful  outgoings  and  infinite  possibility  of  exis- 
tence and  expression,  an  ideal  condition  in  all  that  we 
know  as  the  most  lovable,  spiritual,  and  best. 

Human  perfection,  for  example,  lies  not  in  individual- 
ism but  in  some  form  of  socialism,  since  the  ideal  man  is 
related  to  his  fellow,  and  his  evolution  will  be  complete 
only  as  his  relation  to  his  fellow  man  is  that  of  perfect 
harmony,  —  that  is,  of  perfect  love. 

The  highest  gift  of  science  is,  therefore,  an  added  hope, 
a  new  impulse  to  human  faith.  Science  is  optimistic  in 
the  extreme.  The  golden  age  is  yet  to  be.  For  the  older 
civilizations  the  age  of  gold  was  always  in  the  past;  but 
the  pessimism  of  that  thought  brought  all  the  old  em- 
pires to  wreck  and  ruin.  Christianity  attempted  to 
remedy  the  mischief  by  recapturing  the  golden  era  as  an 
article  of  faith  absolutely  essential  to  the  highest  concep- 
tions of  God,  and  the  highest  possibilities  of  man;  and 
now  in  these  later  days,  comes  our  boldest  speculative 
scientific  thought,  demonstrating  that  as  a  fact,  the  gold- 
en age  has  always  been  in  the  future,  that  every  present 
is  a  golden  age  to  that  which  has  gone  before;  we  have 
caught  the  equation  of  the  terrestrial  order,  and  every 
fixed  point  known  proclaims  a  curve  whose  sweep  is  not 
downward,  nor  backward,  but  upward  and  outward  and 
onward  to  limitless  perfection. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  level  in  scientific  thought 
or  effort,  no  more  than  there  is  a  level  in  a  tree ;  nothing 
creeps,  everything  rises  or  disappears.  Every  advance 
has  infinity  for  its  own.  Suppose  the  dictum  of  science 
had  been,  as  once  it  was,  that  all  the  various  forms  of 


134  On  ^e  Campus 

life  were  but  temporary  things  to  be  swept  presently 
from  the  earth  in  one  dire  catastrophe  —  what  sort  of  a 
message  had  that  been  to  the  groping  sons  of  men  ?  We 
should  be  simply  haunted  by  a  perpetual  expectation  of 
disaster,  compared  with  which  Mount  Pelee's  shaking 
were  but  the  falling  of  a  leaf ;  Mount  Pelee  *s  shaking  is 
but  the  falling  of  a  leaf,  —  no  more.  The  history  of  crea- 
tion as  revealed  in  sea  and  shore,  in  valley  and  in  moun- 
tain, in  quarried  rock,  in  furrowed  plain,  nor  less  in  the 
unfolding  of  every  flower,  teaches  us  '  Ho  believe  what  the 
years  and  centuries  say  as  against  the  hours ;"  "that 
around  every  circle  another  can  be  drawn;"  that  there 
is  no  end  in  nature,  but  every  end  is  a  beginning;  that 
there  is  always  another  dawn  risen  on  each  mid-noon. 

In  view  of  gifts  like  these,  those  other  benefits  that 
were  mentioned  first  entirely  disappear.  We  care  no 
more  for  iron  or  steel  or  even  for  the  riches  of  the  Home- 
stake  mine.  Without  the  libraries  of  the  past,  here  then 
are  philosophy  and  humanity  far  transcending  the 
dreams  of  poet  or  of  seer.  Without  the  plastic  forms  of 
art,  here  are  vistas  of  the  natural  world  that  tax  imagina- 
tion to  the  utmost  and  fill  the  mind  with  visions  of  a 
tapestry  wrought  in  the  loom  of  time;  without  a  formal 
system  of  ethics,  here  is  the  shrine  of  truth;  without  a 
formal  system  of  faith,  here  is  substantial  basis  for  all 
faith,  and  the  sure  foundation  of  unflinching  hope. 

The  famous  phrase  of  Tyndall,  as  to  the  promise  and 
potency  discoverable  in  matter,  was  something  more  than 
an  alliteration.  Every  form  of  matter  possesses  peculiar 
potency;  it  is  for  science  to  solve  its  own  especial  prob- 
lems, but  in  so  doing  it  is  this  potency  that  we  ever  more 


The  Gifts  of  Science  135 

encounter.  The  discovery  and  application  of  power  men 
say  is  practical;  but  as  it  now  appears  such,  practicality 
is  but  an  incident.  It  is  our  own  high  thinking  that  is 
practical.  "Who  telleth  one  of  my  meanings  is  master 
of  all  I  am.  ' '  And  so  man  becomes  at  last  the  l '  mouth- 
piece and  interpreter "  of  nature,  and  while  the  stars  in 
their  courses  serve  him,  he  alone  may  hear  and  lend  sig- 
nificance to  their  eternal  song. 

And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  here  assembled,  it  is 
my  privilege  to  announce  this  beautiful  hall  formally  de- 
voted to  the  purpose  for  which  it  has  been  planned.  I 
dedicate  it  to  the  use  of  these  professors  of  science,  who 
in  patience  have  so  eagerly  watched  its  rising  walls  and 
whose  convenience  it  must  so  admirably  subserve ;  I  ded- 
icate it  to  the  students  of  the  University  of  South  Da- 
kota; to  those  present  and  to  those  to  come,  that  it  may 
be  to  them  the  convenient  means  of  obtaining  ever  new 
and  higher  views  of  the  '  *  great  truths  of  nature  and  the 
laws  of  her  operation, ' '  ever  new  and  higher  inspiration 
from  a  personal  contact  with  the  truth;  I  dedicate  it  to 
the  people  of  this  great  commonwealth,  whose  liberality 
this  day  reaches  fullest  consummation,  to  them  and  to 
their  children,  that  the  work  done  within  these  walls  may 
make  for  spiritual  uplift,  for  the  perpetual  intellectual 
life  and  saving  of  this  State,  in  influence  wide  as  these 
limitless  prairies,  in  beneficence  rich  as  the  recurring 
harvests  of  all  these  fertile  plains. 


THE  BESPONSE  OF  PLANTS 

I  have  no  doubt  that  to  many  of  my  readers  the  title 
of  this  chapter  will  be  taken  as  a  figure  of  speech. 
* '  Plants  responsive  ? ' '  they  perhaps  will  say.  ' '  "Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing?  We  should  sooner  expect  re- 
sponses from  the  planets  than  from  plants.  The  people 
on  the  planet  Mars  are  no  doubt  digging  ditches  for  pur- 
poses other  than  irrigation,  and  the  wireless  shall  yet 
signal  them  to  some  intelligible  response,  but  plants  — 
why,  Linne  himself,  the  spiritual  father  of  all  such  as 
study  vegetables,  Linne  has  said  — '  Stones  grow ;  plants 
grow  and  live;  animals  grow,  live,  and  feel';  plainly  to 
indicate  that  sentiency,  ability  to  respond  is  the  very 
prerogative  of  the  animal.  To  assert  the  response  of 
plants  is  heresy ;  it  is  but  to  introduce  confusion ;  to  un- 
settle our  knowledge;  induce  intellectual  discomfort,  or 
intellectual  activity  which,  for  some  people  no  doubt,  is 
just  the  same.  Plants  exist,  indeed,  the  dull  stems  and 
leaves  of  wood  and  field;  yes,  live  and  manage  to  grow, 
poor  things,  in  some  far-off  uninteresting  way;  but  as1 
for  response,  there  certainly  is  none.  We  agree  with 
Mr.  Lowell  — '  How  can  one  keep  up  a  dialogue,  with  a 
dull  wooden  thing  that  must  live  and  must  die  a  log?' 
Whispering  trees  and  oaks  of  Dodona  exist  only  in  the 
realm  of  fable;  and  only  in  poetry  do  we  hold  converse 
with  the  flowers." 

Nevertheless,  there  are  other  things  besides  logs  with 


The  Response  of  Plants  137 

which  we  betimes  fail  to  hold  communication.  Some- 
times the  failure  comes  through  lack  of  suitable  medium 
—  lack  of  language,  we  say;  more  frequently  through 
lack  of  sympathy.  All  sorts  of  speech-perfection  fails 
to  enable  the  coal-barons  to  understand  their  employes; 
nor  does  the  boy  fail  for  lack  of  language  to  communi- 
cate with  Towser.  Sometimes  there  is  absolute  failure 
on  our  part  to  appreciate  the  message.  Response  there 
may  be,  to  us  all  unperceived,  strive  we  never  so  hard. 
Marconi's  messages  are  possibly  flitting  at  this  moment 
far  above  our  heads,  secrets  inviolate.  But  stranger 
still,  there  may  be  a  thousand  responses,  all  about  us,  to 
us  all  unnoted,  unperceived,  simply  because  they  are  not 
ours;  they  do  not  come  addressed  to  us;  we  are  in  no 
wise  related  to  them;  they  come  not  within  our  circle; 
their  flashes  illuminate  never  the  limited  recesses  of  our 
unheeding  brains. 

Now  with  increase  of  knowledge  some  men  have  learned 
to  think  of  plants  as  very  wonderful  things,  next  to  ani- 
mals the  most  marvelous  that  come  within  our  ken,  per- 
haps so  far  just  as  marvelous ;  for  could  we  comprehend 
one  we  might  the  other.  Nay,  they  are  more  marvelous, 
because  more  hidden  from  us ;  voiceless  are  they,  and  yet 
their  responses  form  part  of  the  harmony  of  this  world, 
part  and  parcel,  no  doubt,  of  the  music  of  the  real  choir 
invisible.  These  responses  we  may  only  in  part  discover 
because  to  our  senses,  our  unaided  senses,  they  make 
small  or  no  appeal.  The  highly  differentiated  nerve- 
tracts  which  we  denominate  the  organs  of  special  sense 
are  set  in  these  bodies  of  ours  simply  to  do  a  certain  sort 
of  necessary  or  essential  work.  We  awake  to  conscious- 


138  On  the  Campus 

ness  to  find  ourselves  the  glad  and  fortunate  possessors 
of  the  faculties  of  hearing,  sight,  smell,  taste,  and  touch, 
and  the  world  stands  all  related  to  us  through  these  sev- 
eral channels  of  appreciation.  We  are  apt  to  think 
these  infallible.  The  philosopher  lays  down  as  one  of 
his  postulates,  or  did  once,  the  demand  that  we  may  not 
discredit  the  evidence  of  our  senses.  The  postulate  was 
just ;  but  alas,  as  we  have  long  since  learned,  only  within 
the  limit  of  nature 's  purpose.  These  senses  of  ours,  * '  in- 
telligencers, "  as  Charles  Lamb  calls  them,  are  guides  — 
not  infallible  —  but  simply  reasonably  safe  in  enabling 
us  to  make  our  way  about  the  world.  These  eyes  of  ours 
were  never  intended  primarily  to  behold  the  diminutive 
objects  that  fill  the  field  of  the  microscopic  vision  but 
simply  to  prevent  our  running  into  objects  that  might 
do  us  injury;  the  eye  of  the  vulture  scans  a  wider  hori- 
zon, with  perception  still  more  keen;  our  ears,  not  to 
hear  the  harmonies  of  Beethoven,  but  simply  to  perceive 
those  dangers  whose  oncoming  possibly  produced  noise; 
and  so  with  all  the  rest.  I  venture  to  discuss  all  this 
more  particularly,  because  people  are  apt  to  think  that 
our  senses  involve  much  more  in  the  field  of  our  complex 
mental,  or  intellectual,  life  than  they  really  do.  On  the 
theory  here  adopted  they  are  all  reducible  to  simple 
touch,  to  the  faculty  of  receiving  impressions  from  with- 
out, and  differ  only  as  they  lend  themselves  to  impres- 
sions of  different  kinds.  The  history  of  the  development 
of  the  individual  sense,  no  less  than  the  comparative 
study  of  sentient  animals,  abundantly  establishes  this 
view  and  we  may  here  assume  its  truth. 

But  there  is  still  another  singular  fact  that  we  must 


The  Response  of  Plants 


139 


notice  before  we  are  in  position  to  understand  what  is 
meant  by  the  term  response,  and  particularly  before  we 
can  apply  that  term  with  accuracy  in  dealing  with  living 
plants.  The  impressions  from  without  to  which  our 
senses  make  response  are,  after  all,  as  we  have  lately 
learned  to  know,  all  the  result  of  some  form  of  energy  of 
some  form  of  force,  perhaps  of  one  form  of  energy  acting 
under  different  degrees  of  intensity.  Thus  the  percep- 
tion of  sound  is  resultant  upon  the  reception  by  the  ear 
of  certain  waves,  impulses,  which  we  may  set  in  motion 
and  measure  at  our  will.  The  perception  of  heat  is  con- 
ditional upon  impulses,  similar,  though  vastly  more  re- 
fined; the  perception  of  light,  upon  waves  of  impulse 
whose  average  length  is  measured  in  fractions  of  a  thou- 
sandth of  an  inch;  but  in  every  case  touch,  sight,  hear- 
ing, the  sense,  the  cognition  or  recognition,  is  conditioned 
upon  physical  impulse,  upon  something  that  can  be  esti- 
mated, weighed,  or  measured.  Now  we  say  that  our  fin- 
gers respond  to  the  presence  of  heat,  our  ears  to  sound, 
our  eyes  to  light,  and  we  perceive  that  in  every  case  the 
response  is  a  result  of  the  impact  of  physical  force. 
Waves  beat  upon  the  surface  of  our  bodies  and  we  feel 
them ;  waves  beat  in  soft  lapping  measures  upon  the  out- 
spread auditory  nerve,  and  we  hear  them;  waves  dance 
in  brilliant  sequence  on  the  retina  of  the  eye,  and  lo! 
we  see! 

But  this  is  only  one-half  the  problem.  A  response,  as 
the  idea  is  now  growing  in  our  minds,  is  two-fold  in  na- 
ture. We  have  described  only  the  outside  half  of  it.  As 
the  philosopher  would  say  it  is  both  objective  and  sub- 
jective; but  objectively  it  includes  here  both  the  cause 


140  On  the  Campus 

and  at  least  the  immediate  effect.  With  secondary  or 
ulterior  subjective  effects  we  may  not  now  concern  our- 
selves; but  the  immediate  effect,  which  is  the  essential 
part  of  the  response,  is  the  present  subject  of  our  in- 
quiry. Now  inasmuch  as  in  any  perception,  say  as  of 
light  or  sound,  the  promoting  cause  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
physical  and  physical  only,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  con- 
ceive of  the  effect  in  any  other  light  than  as  physical 
also;  so  that  when  we  know  that  the  sense  of  sight,  for 
instance,  is  conditioned  upon  the  impact  of  a  certain 
volume  of  energy  delivered,  as  we  say,  in  the  form  of 
light-waves,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  think  of  the  effect 
in  any  other  way  than  as  resultant  in  physical  change, 
displacement  of  some  sort  or  other,  all  apart  from  any 
mental  effects  that  may  or  may  not  be  involved  in  what 
we  recognize  as  the  perception  of  light.  In  the  sense  of 
taste  the  approach  and  reaction  are  chemical;  the  form 
of  energy  is  somewhat  different  but  the  response  is  in 
both  its  elements,  both  in  cause  and  immediate  effect 
something,  physical  and  physical  alone.  All  our  percep- 
tions then  have  reference  to  the  physical  forces  by  which 
we  are  surrounded  and  all  our  responses  have  their  ini- 
tiative in  a  physical  reaction,  dependent  upon  or  related 
to  the  impinging  external  force.  I  who  speak  to  you 
recognize  your  presence  by  the  impact  on  my  eyes  of  one 
increasing  tide  of  waves  that  comes  up  reflected  here; 
you  that  listen  are  assailed  by  yet  another  tide  that  in- 
terrupts not  the  first ;  and  the  response  that  is  evidenced 
in  your  attention,  is  conditioned  upon  a  physical  cause 
and  physical  effect,  just  as  really  as  though  I  were  to  toss 


The  Response  of  Plants  141 

(from  the  platform)  a  handful  of  leaden  shot  and  you 
should  perceive  the  impact  of  their  falling  weight. 

I  am  fully  aware  that  there  have  been  men  to  argue 
that  apart  from  eyes  there  were  no  light ;  apart  from  ears 
there  were  no  hearing;  but  the  modern  view  is  exactly 
the  opposite.  Without  light  there  had  been  no  eyes; 
without  sound  no  hearing.  The  eye  is  a  response  to  the 
existence  of  light-waves;  the  ear  to  the  fact  of  waves  of 
sound. 

We  begin  now  to  perceive  what  is  meant  by  a  response. 
In  a  vast  and  magnificent  sense  the  whole  organic  world 
is  a  response. 

Two  great  factors  are  before  us :  first,  the  world  is  full 
of  energy  in  manifold  phase  and  guise ;  second,  organic 
things  are  plastic,  yield  to  the  onset  of  every  sort  of  en- 
ergy and  by  yielding  show  response.  When  we  speak  to 
a  friend  and  he  replies,  explanation  lies  in  the  fact  that 
we  are  capable  of  producing  or  controlling  a  certain 
modicum  of  energy  which  produces  a  physical  effect  by 
which  our  friend  perceives  and  to  which  he  responds. 
That  a  similar  address  made  to  a  plant  elicits  no  response 
is  due  simply  to  the  fact  that  our  relations  with  the  plant 
have  not  been  such  as  to  render  such  intercommunication 
mutually  advantageous.  We  speak  an  unknown  tongue ; 
or  more  exactly,  we  start  a  series  of  wave-lengths  which 
the  plant  has  never  learned  to  register,  no  more  than  we 
are  able,  codeless,  to  capture  the  electric  impulses  from 
Marconi's  tower.  Indeed  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that 
there  are  modes  of  motion  all  about  us  that  we  know 
nothing  at  all  about;  of  some  we  become  cognizant 


142  On  the  Campus 

through  our  own  devices ;  modes  of  motion  and  of  matter 
concerning  which  we  are  ignorant  absolutely,  simply  be- 
cause such  knowledge  is  not  of  immediate  practical  value 
to  our  terrestrial  life.  What  do  most  men  know  to-day 
about  Becquerel  rays,  or  those  other  rays  recently  dis- 
covered, not  yet  named?  Nature  is  a  generous  mother; 
but  after  all,  she  has  put  into  our  scrip  just  capital 
enough  to  convey  us  safely  to  the  journey's  end  in  com- 
fort; a  little  surplus  perchance  for  hazard  on  the  road, 
but  not  one  cent  for  luxury  or  spending  money.  Thus  it 
has  happened  that  with  all  the  natural  forms  of  energy 
about  us,  animals  have  used  but  few.  The  force  that  we 
call  gravitation  pulls  continually  and  every  animal  in  his 
every  feature  shows  response.  The  winds  are  an  un- 
ceasing source  of  natural  power,  and  animals,  not  a  few, 
take  advantage  of  their  moving  currents.  Heat,  light, 
and  sound  are  more  subtle  forms  of  natural  energy  but 
each  of  these  has  found,  as  we  have  seen,  appreciation  in 
the  animal's  structure.  The  latest  form  of  energy  is 
that  developed  by  the  animals  themselves  and  the  inter- 
action here,  t.e.,  between  animal  and  animal,  is  a  matter 
long  established.  Now  it  will  surprise  you  to  reflect  that 
to  every  one  of  these  natural  agencies  the  plant  makes 
response  with  the  single  exception  of  sound,  and  even 
this  response  has  of  late  been  strongly  claimed.  Plants 
respond  to  gravitation,  to  currents  of  wind  —  to  the  cur- 
rents of  water,  to  heat,  light,  to  electricity,  physical 
change  of  every  sort,  and  to  the  presence  of  animals ;  in- 
deed, plants  are  the  natural  chemists  of  the  world  and 
their  chemical  responses  and  activities  surpass  all  human 
cunning.  To  all  cosmic  conditions,  the  structural  re- 


The  Response  of  Plants 


sponse,  functional  response,  if  you  prefer,  is  just  as 
definite,  just  as  intimate  as  in  the  case  of  their  congeners 
of  the  animal  world. 

Volumes  might  not  suffice  to  set  forth  or  illustrate  the 
variety  of  the  plant  response.  Let  us  for  the  present 
note  as  we  may  a  few  cases  simply,  which  may  establish 
the  general  fact.  It  will  not  be  possible  to  discuss  even 
these  with  any  fulness,  but  we  may  at  least  see  the  out- 
lines of  the  argument. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  plants  respond  to  the  force  of 
gravity.  Every  one  of  the  higher  plants  is  to  greater  or 
less  extent,  in  the  axis  of  its  growth,  a  simple  extension 
of  the  radius  of  the  earth.  The  fern,  the  blade  of  grass 
quite  as  much  as  the  birch,  the  oak,  the  pine,  the  taper- 
ing spruce  upon  the  mountain  shelf  —  each  and  all  are 
subjects  of  that  eternal  power  that  holds  alike  in  place 
the  planet  and  the  grain  of  sand.  The  mountain  spruce 
unvexed  by  storms,  erect,  two  hundred  feet  in  height 
drawn  sunward  by  the  light,  held  downward  by  its 
Weight  as  by  a  thousand  equal  silken  cords,  shines  in  a 
spire  of  conic  symmetry  the  very  dream  of  architectural 
elegance  and  grace.  The  very  posture  and  form  of 
every  plant  you  see  is  the  outcome,  first,  of  what  we  call 
'its  nature,  its  heredity  —  accumulated  responses  of  all 
its  ancestors  —  plus  the  resultant  of  gravity  in  conjunc- 
tion night  and  day  with  meteoric  forces  from  "a'  the 
airts  the  wind  can  blaw."  The  fact  is  that  we  are  so 
familiar  with  the  response  of  plants  to  gravitation  that 
we  have  ceased  to  think  the  case  remarkable. 

I  have  mentioned  in  that  other  sentence  "heredity" 
as  a  dominant  factor  in  the  plant's  behavior;  but  hered- 


144  On  the  Campus 

ity  is  but  a  tendency,  perhaps  best  described  as  the  con- 
tribution of  past  experiences.  The  tendency  of  the  plant 
to  grow  upward  is  due  to  special  causes.  This  too  is  a 
response  to  be  mentioned  later  on.  The  point  here  is 
that  the  tree,  for  instance,  with  an  imperative  call  to 
grow  upward,  grows  straight  upward  on  the  same  prin- 
ciple that  the  farmer-boy  makes  perpendicular  his  flag- 
staff, or  the  architect  raises  straight  up  his  most  perfect 
spire. 

I  am  not  now  speaking  of  the  fact  that  plants  obey 
the  law  of  gravity  but  that  they  respond  to  its  binding 
force  and  yet  strangely  use  it.  For  instance,  while  the 
tree  grows  erect,  roots  down  and  stem  up,  you  cannot 
make  these  parts  of  the  tree  or  plant  do  anything  else, 
except  by  obliterating  gravity.  We  have  a  machine 
called  the  klinostat  on  which  germinating  seeds  are  car- 
ried slowly  round  and  round  in  a  vertical  plane.  Here, 
up  and  down  forever  change  places,  and  the  poor  plants 
are  smitten,  so  to  say,  with  vertigo  and  roots  and  stems 
grow  every  which  way ;  but,  you  take  grains  of  corn  and 
plant  them  root  end  up,  and  the  root  will  go  down  every 
time,  and  the  stem  will  start  up;  they  will  pass  each 
other,  each  turning  one  hundred  and  eighty  degrees  to 
do  it.  Take  peas  or  beans  that  have  started  to  grow  and 
turn  them  wrong  side  up,  hang  them  in  moist  air  under 
a  bell-jar,  and  they  will  right  themselves  in  a  few  days, 
with  the  certainty  of  an  acrobat.  We  think  it  very  re- 
markable that  we  can  tell  when  things  are  level ;  we  are 
rather  proud  of  the  fact  that  we  have  the  privilege  of 
becoming  seasick,  and  we  talk  learnedly  of  semi-circular 
canals  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  what  shall  we  say 


The  Response  of  Plants  145 

of  these  simple  plants,  that  without  semi-circular  canals 
—  without  complicated  spirit-levels  or  any  apparatus  at 
all  that  we  have  yet  been  able  to  discover,  are  yet  able 
to  perceive  the  direction  of  the  earth 's  center,  absolutely, 
as  if  guided  by  lines  of  force  unseen?  Nor  is  this  all. 
Eoots  are  not  absolutely  bound  to  the  earth 's  radii,  if  for 
some  special  reason  at  a  given  time  another  direction 
would  seem  preferable  in  presence  of  some  other  over- 
mastering but  misguiding  stimulus.  I  once  planted  cer- 
tain seeds  in  wet  sawdust  in  a  sieve,  intending  to  clip 
the  advancing  root-tips  as  they  came  through  below. 
Judge  of  my  surprise,  a  few  days  later,  on  turning  the 
sieve  to  find  that  the  roots  had  indeed  made  their  way 
down  and  out  as  I  had  surmised  —  but,  had  immediately 
turned  about  and  were  now  growing  upward,  lost  in  the 
sawdust  again  overhead!  They  had  followed  the  evi- 
dently irritating  wires.  Truly  the  plant  responds  to  the 
law  of  gravity ;  but  relentless,  unceasing  in  its  operation 
as  is  that  unknown  force,  nevertheless  the  plant  in  its 
response  is  in  a  measure  free ;  uses  this  cosmic  force  even 
when  most  by  it  controlled. 

In  the  same  way  it  might  be  shown  how  plants  respond 
to  heat,  to  currents  of  water,  to  currents  of  air,  or  to 
other  varying  or  constant  phases  of  environment.  The 
response  is  real,  and  often  surprising  both  in  promptness 
and  extent.  Nothing  in  this  field  of  experiment  is  more 
astonishing  than  the  response  made,  in  form  of  leaf,  by 
certain  semi-aquatic  plants  to  the  presence  or  absence  of 
water. 

The  response  of  plants  to  moving  currents  whether  of 
wind  or  water  is  too  familiar  to  require  more  than  men- 


146  On  the  Campus 

tion.  These  are  natural  forces  which  from  the  begin- 
ning have  been,  to  plants  especially,  a  curious  stimulant. 
These  have  played  the  part  of  common  carriers,  but 
against  them  no  law  of  liability  may  run.  Spores,  seeds, 
the  whole  plant  betimes,  takes  passage  down  the  wind 
and  generally  each  goes  all  fitted  to  the  journey.  Long 
before  Montgolfier  had  ever  dreamed  of  his  balloon,  or 
Mountain  tried  his  flying  boat,  plants  had  successfully 
practiced  aerial  navigation  in  a  thousand  marvelous 
ways.  The  "cotton"  of  the  poplar  floats  securely  around 
the  world,  and  the  parachute  of  our  dooryard  maple 
descending  gives  pointers  to  zeppelin  and  aeroplane  and 
makes  a  landing  absolutely  safe  and  accurate  every  time : 
it  grows  that  way! 

But  the  plant  has  another  response  more  marvelous 
more  delicate  still,  matching  in  the  exquisiteness  of  its 
refinement  the  keenest  perception  among  animals  even 
the  finest  that  we  ourselves  possess,  with  all  our  strange 
complexity  of  nerve  and  tissue. 

Response  with  us  is  largely  a  matter  of  sound-percep- 
tion. But  sound  waves  as  we  perceive  them  are  clumsy 
things,  tremors  of  the  atmosphere  from  a  few  inches  to 
a  rod  in  length.  When  we  go  to  church  on  Sunday 
morning  and  the  great  organ  sounds,  the  music  actually 
smites  the  walls  and  rafters  and  sometimes  makes  the 
windows  rattle,  proving,  if  need  there  were  to  prove,  that 
hearing  is  but  a  mode  of  feeling,  a  part  of  the  sense  of 
touch.  All  sorts  of  inanimate  things  might  respond,  we 
think,  to  impulses  that  come  in  waves  fifteen  feet  in 
length ! 

The  absolutely  marvelous  organ  in  the  animal  body  is 


The  Response  of  Plants  147 

the  eye.  Light-waves,  as  we  have  seen,  are  the  minutest 
impulses  of  which  we  take  account.  The  average  length 
is  less  than  one  forty- two-thousandth  of  an  inch.  In  the 
animal  economy  one  special  nerve  is  so  spread  out  as  to 
beat  in  unison  with  these  minute  vibrations  and  we  think 
it  wonderful ;  it  is ;  but  to  the  same  vibrations  the  whole 
green  world  responds!  The  vast  area  of  the  forest- 
foliage,  the  countless  blades  upon  the  outspread  meadows 
of  the  world,  the  growing  harvests  in  our  summer  fields, 
the  unnoted  flora  of  the  ocean  waters,  the  floating  con- 
tinent of  the  Sargasso  Sea  —  all  are  but  one  far-spread 
mechanism  absolutely  responsive  to  the  pulsing  beams 
of  light. 

It  is  as  if  the  whole  green  world  were  one  vast 
eye.  No  wonder  it  hears  not  when  we  call.  It  is  the 
case  of  the  metaphor  of  the  scriptures:  Verily,  "If  the 
whole  body  were  an  eye  where  were  the  hearing  ? ' '  Re- 
sponse so  absolute  to  light  has  excluded  recognition  of 
those  longer  waves  which  stand  to  us  for  sound.  But 
the  plants  go  farther  yet.  "Wonder  of  wonders!  The 
plant  is  able  to  accumulate  the  minutest  impulses  of  the 
waves  of  light  to  the  very  upbuilding  of  the  organic 
world.  For  the  animal  "light  is  sweet,  and  a  pleasant 
thing  it  is  for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun/'  but  the  ani- 
mal, even  the  highest,  may  live  in  darkness.  Homer, 
men  say,  was  blind.  But  to  the  plant  the  light  is  all  in 
all;  and  has  been  forever.  Away  in  the  dawning  of 
life's  morning,  Nature  from  her  golden  trumpet  in  the 
skies  blew  forth  a  shimmering  blast  and  sent  the  waves 
along  the  pathway  of  the  sun,  and  life  obeyed,  and  ever 
since  the  world  of  plants  has  lived  to  witness  to  the 


148  On  the  Campus 

power  and  magic  of  that  silent  music.  Silent  to  us; 
who  knows  what  it  might  be  did  we  have  ears  to  hear ! 

Few  of  us  realize  the  momentous  significance  of  this 
light-relation.  Few  of  us  have  ever  stopped  to  think 
that  without  this  the  world  we  know  would  absolutely 
cease  to  be.  When  God  made  the  world  He  put  the 
power-plant  ninety-six  million  miles  away!  That  is  a 
long  distance;  perfectly  impracticable,  your  wisest  en- 
gineer might  say ;  but  green  plants  have  found  the  wheels 
for  application,  the  bands  are  beams  of  light;  and  lo, 
Nature  blooms,  the  philosopher  thinks,  the  historian 
writes,  and  the  poet  dreams! 

No  more  do  we  realize  how  very  keen  is  the  apprecia- 
tion of  light  on  the  part  of  the  living  plant.  No  doubt 
the  response  is  absolutely  prompt,  like  that  of  an  in- 
stantaneous dry-plate.  We  might  perceive  it  could  we 
devise  machinery  in  delicacy  to  match.  Everybody 
knows  what  certain  vegetables  do  when  shut  in  a  dark- 
ened cellar  with  perhaps  a  single  dim  window  somewhere 
in  the  wall:  their  shoots  stretch  out  in  helpless  pallor, 
bending  to  the  light.  I  found  once  a  potato-shoot  more 
than  twenty  feet  long.  The  tuber  had  fallen  neglected 
behind  a  pile  of  boxes  in  the  basement  of  a  building. 
That  cellar  seemed  to  me  absolutely  dark;  but  away  off 
yonder  in  the  street  was  a  man-hole  in  the  walk  through 
which,  by  the  glazing,  came  just  a  slight  illumination. 
The  potato  from  behind  the  boxes  perceived  that  light 
and  consumed  itself  in  an  effort  to  reach  that  distant, 
feeble  ray. 

A  man  lost  in  the  mazes  of  a  coal  mine  some  years  ago 
found  himself  in  total  darkness.  He  groped  from  beam 


The  Response  of  Plants  149 

to  beam,  from  wall  to  wall.  He  could  hear ;  he  heard  the 
dripping  of  waters  near  and  far,  he  heard  the  melan- 
choly murmur  of  the  busy  world  far  above  his  head,  he 
heard  the  echoes  of  his  own  footfall  and  the  cries  of 
noisome  bats  that  struggled  with  each  other  in  the  night. 
At  length  he  found  a  single  point  of  light.  Toward  this 
he  urged  his  way,  climbing  a  long  abandoned  shaft  —  at 
length  emerging  to  the  open  day  more  dead  than  living. 
Which  more  responsive  to  the  beam  —  the  bewildered 
miner,  or  the  imprisoned  plant? 

Darwin  made  some  wonderful  experiments  in  this  field 
of  our  inquiry.  The  shooting  blades  of  a  sprouting  grass 
bent  toward  a  distant  lamp  which  emitted  so  little  light 
that  a  pencil  held  vertically  close  to  the  plants  cast  no 
shadow  which  the  eye  could  perceive  on  a  white  card. 
These  delicate  shoots  were  therefore  affected  by  a  differ- 
ence in  the  amount  of  light  on  their  two  sides,  a  differ- 
ence which  the  eye  of  the  trained  naturalist  could  not 
perceive.  " Light  seems  to  act  on  the  tissues  of  plants,'* 
says  Darwin,  "almost  in  the  same  manner  as  it  does  on 
the  nervous  system  of  animals."  Probably,  I  dare  to 
add,  in  just  the  same  way,  but  far  more  delicately,  and 
through  wider  spectral  range. 

But  this  is  not  all.  The  fact  is  the  plant,  while  thus 
exquisitely  responsive  to  the  light,  is  yet  after  all  not 
subordinate  to  its  power.  Certain  parts  of  plants  habit- 
ually turn  from  the  light.  Thus  the  tendrils  of  the 
grape  bend  away,  as  surely  as  its  leaves  spread  to  the 
sun.  It  is  advantageous  to  the  grape  to  seek  support 
by  its  tendrils,  but  why  this  support  should  be  sought 
in  the  background  is  less  evident;  perhaps  that  there  be 


150  On  the  Campus 

less  interference  with  the  proper  foliage  display.  The 
leaves  of  the  prairie  compass  plant  at  mid-day  stand 
edgewise  to  the  south ;  that  is,  avoid  maximum  illumina- 
tion; and  many  plants,  especially  in  dry  regions,  set 
their  leaves  slantwise  to  the  sun  and  so  control  the 
amount  of  illumination.  More  remarkably  still,  many 
plants  well  deserve  the  name  "sensitive."  Shelley,  as 
we  all  know,  made  the  "sensitive  plant"  famous. 

"A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night." 

The  sensitive  plant  is  indeed  a  marvel ;  but  is  the  won- 
der lessened  when  we  reflect  that  hundreds  of  other 
plants  respond  to  external  stimuli  in  much  the  same 
fashion?  The  common  clovers  and  sorrels  of  the  fields 
"change  their  position  as  the  light  of  day  grows  and 
wanes ;  they  are  expanded  during  the  day  and  fold  down- 
wards in  the  evening. ' '  The  common  locust  is  notorious 
in  such  response.  In  1869  when  the  sun  underwent  total 
eclipse  the  leaves  of  the  locust  trees  retired  with  the 
turkeys  that  clambered  to  their  branches.  The  cour- 
teous mimosas  of  the  tropics  bow  as  the  traveler  passes 
amid  their  shining  ranks,  and  remain  drooping  in  kow- 
tow for  some  minutes  after  he  has  passed.  These  move- 
ments are  primarily,  no  doubt,  responses  to  the  varying 
amount  of  light  and  have  only  later  become  amenable 
to  the  ruder  forms  of  irritation.  Your  gentle  stroking 
of  the  sensitive  plant  is  rudeness  itself  compared  with 
those  finer  thrills  long  since  resultant  from  the  onset 
of  the  light.  Yet  again ;  the  light  is  not  all.  Plants  are 


The  Response  of  Plants  151 

like  good  children ;  they  go  to  sleep  at  dusk  and  rise  with 
dawn.  The  difference  in  illumination  merely  gives  no- 
tice that  time  has  arrived  when  the  plant  should  act  in  a 
special  way.  Darwin  has  shown  us  that  if  for  any  rea- 
son ' '  the  leaves  have  not  been  brightly  illumined  during 
the  day"  the  nervous  little  things  fail  to  sleep  at  night. 
And  away  north  "where  the  sun  does  not  set,  the  trans- 
ported southern  Mimosa  still  regularly  goes  to  sleep. " 
Furthermore  its  habits  may  be  changed,  so  that  it  will 
sleep  by  day  and  wake  by  night.  Plants  brought  to  our 
greenhouses  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  instead  of 
bringing  with  them  their  waking  and  sleeping  schedule 
of  hours,  actually  conform  to  the  dial  of  the  meridian 
to  which  they  have  arrived,  and  sleep  and  wake  with  the 
local  population.  Could  conformity  go  farther  ? 

But  it  is  time  we  turned  to  another  chapter  in  this 
argument.  The  response  of  the  plant  to  the  world  of 
animals  is  the  latest  accomplishment  of  the  vegetable 
economy.  So  rich,  so  wonderful,  so  varied  is  this  re- 
sponse that  a  whole  library  might  be  gathered  of  books 
discussing  this  single  topic.  The  whole  array  of  flowers 
with  all  their  brilliancy  of  color,  beauty  of  form,  and 
absolute  perfection  of  sweetness  and  perfume  is  but  a 
recognition  by  the  plant  that  other  creatures  too  can 
taste  the  light  and  know  its  sweetness.  Here  is  a  re- 
sponse to  creatures  that  have  eyes  and  noses.  Nowhere 
color  in  this  world  of  plants  but  somewhere  is  an  eye  to 
see  it ;  nowhere  odor,  but  somewhere  a  nose  to  inhale  its 
fragrance. 
' '  Full  many  a  flower, ' '  you  say,  * '  is  born  to  blush  unseen 

And  waste  its  fragrance  on  the  desert  air. ' ' 


152  On  the  Campus 

Ah,  no !  by  no  means.  On  other  pages  in  this  volume 
we  may  discuss  the  desert;  but  let  us  here  simply  say 
that  the  relation  of  plants  to  the  world  of  animal  life  is 
now  in  many  cases  so  intimate,  that  plant  and  animal 
have  become  virtually  inseparable.  Many  insects  are 
winged  flowers ;  or  rather  many  flowers  have  so  far  mim- 
icked the  forms  of  the  gaudy  insect  world  that  we  may 
see  them  blooming  as  a  swarm  of  resting  butterflies. 
There  is  no  way  to  illustrate  this  fully  in  our  northern 
climate.  The  finest  illustrations  are  in  tropic  lands. 
Perhaps  the  most  wonderful  natural  order  of  flowering 
plants  is  that  of  the  orchids ;  a  New  York  orchid  show  is 
worth  going  far  to  see.  One  orchid  has  been  called  by 
the  less  (or  is  it  more?)  reverent  Spanish  population  of 
this  continent,  ''the  Holy  Ghost  flower";  its  snowy  out- 
spread petals  and  extended  beak  simulate  the  form  of 
the  dove,  the  emblem  of  the  Spirit.  This  of  course  is 
merest  fancy;  but  the  relation  of  plants  and  birds  is 
after  all  real  enough.  The  humming-bird  is  surely  a 
blossom  taken  flight,  rather  is  the  humming-bird  a  per- 
petual prisoner,  once  yielding  to  the  call  of  beauty,  now 
bound  forever  in  the  fascination  of  the  flowers. 

Have  you  ever  watched  a  humming-bird  amid  the  blos- 
soms?  Did  you  notice  him  last  summer  and  spy  his 
ways  hanging  upon  the  weigela  and  the  lilac  clusters? 
If  you  did  you  must  have  been  startled  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  his  apparition.  All  at  once  he  hovered  there; 
you  watched  him  for  a  moment,  perhaps  moved  —  and 
he  was  gone.  Perhaps  you  saw  what  he  was  doing,  saw 
him  flit,  at  least,  like  some  swift  beetle,  quick  from 
flower  to  flower.  What  he  did  there  you  did  not  see ;  he 


The  Response  of  Plants 


153 


is  too  speedy  by  far  for  that,  and  yet  he  was  by  no  means 
playing;  every  simple  flower  yielded  up  its  sweet,  not 
much  of  course,  but  a  little,  and  the  sum  of  it  all  feeds 
the  tiny  hummer.  To  understand  this  you  must  see 
your  specimen  at  close  quarters,  then  you  find  a  long 
slender  bill,  the  two  parts  applied  to  form  an  almost 
capillary  tube  in  which  a  hair-like  tongue  can  play ;  this 
is  the  suction  apparatus  by  which  the  nectar  rises  to  that 
throbbing  throat.  But  here  he  is  again  to-night!  How 
'like  a  flash  he  does  come,  to  be  sure.  Did  you  ever  see 
such  swiftness?  You  cannot  see  him  fly,  you  only  note 
that  he  has  changed  position.  What  a  breast  is  that, 
and  what  whirring  wings,  just  a  haze ;  sure  no  saint  ever 
wore  halo  such  as  that!  What  little  wings!  How  can 
they  go  so  fast  and  not  break  all  to  pieces?  There  he  is 
before  that  great  swinging  bluebell,  stands  right  in  its 
flaring  portal.  Stands?  —  no,  he  does  not  stand,  his 
little  feet  touch  nothing,  he  is  balanced  there  in  perfect 
equilibrium,  marvel  of  marvels!  Gravitation  pulls  one 
way,  wind  blows  another,  little  wings  beat  another,  re- 
sisting both,  and  there  he  hangs  spinning  like  a  tiny 
planet  suspended  upon  nothing.  When  saw  you  equi- 
poise like  that?  There,  he's  gone  again.  He  heard  per- 
chance the  squeaking  whistle  of  his  mate,  or  possibly 
saw  you;  but  think  of  it;  vision,  hearing,  taste,  desire, 
perception,  life,  energy  exhaustless,  all  made  out  of  a 
little  honey  —  "the  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  min- 
ute ; "  no  more.  Oh,  what  a  miracle  is  there,  that  moves 
from  year  to  year  through  tireless  generations!  The 
gleaming  perfection  of  exquisite  beauty,  and  ALIVE  ! 
Now  then:  need  we  here  sound-waves  sixteen  feet  in 


154  On  the  Campus 

length  to  tell  the  sympathy  between  bird  and  flower? 
Think  you  the  bird  perceives  not  in  some  mystic  way 
the  silent  music  of  those  swinging  blossom  bells ;  nor  less 
respond  those  clusters  of  yellow  and  scarlet  and  blue  to 
the  gentle  ministration  of  that  whirring  marvel  poised 
before  them?  Alas!  how  far  we  are  all  of  us  from 
reaching  the  diviner  harmonies  that  fill  this  wondrous 
world!  Of  old,  plants  have  been  calling  bee  and  bird 
and  butterfly  and  moth;  of  old,  the  population  of  the 
air  has  heard  the  call ;  of  old,  a  thousand  flitting,  breath- 
ing things  have  sought  the  very  heart  of  bud  and  blos- 
som, and  more  and  more  the  plants  have  answered  back 
filling  the  earth  with  splendor,  so  that  in  summer  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow  come  reflected  from  mountain  and 
from  plain  and  the  fragrance  of  Eden  fills  the  morning 
hours,  while  perfumes  from  fountains  all  unseen  im- 
paradise  even  the  desert  night! 

To  the  animals  of  this  world  the  plants  have  long  since 
learned  to  make  reply. 

But  there  is  one  animal  that  has  only  lately,  as  time 
goes,  come  into  his  possessions.  Of  this  latest  child  of 
Nature  the  Scripture  saith  that  he  shall  "have  dominion 
over  the  fish  of  the  sea  and  over  the  fowl  of  the  air.'7 
Surely  the  plants  are  not  disobedient  to  his  summons. 

"The  little  flowers  were  kind  to  him 
And  the  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  him 
As  into  the  wood  the  Master  went." 

Plants  have  responded  to  man's  summons  in  every 
possible  way.  They  have  come  with  him  in  sympathy 
profound  through  all  his  journey,  that  long,  long  jour- 


The  Response  of  Plants  155 

ney,  out  of  the  dim  and  misty  past.  Some  of  them  spoke 
to  him  with  their  sighing  leaves  and  soothed  the  early 
questioning  of  his  perturbed  spirit.  Some  of  them 
spread  above  his  head  their  leafy  boughs  in  loving  shel- 
ter; some  of  them  when  he  fain  would  worship  threw 
their  Gothic  arches  high  aloft,  when  ''groves  were  God's 
first  temples ; ' '  some  of  them  lent  him  all  luscious  forms 
of  fruit ;  some  of  them  came  with  him  all  the  way  in  re- 
sponse to  his  demand  for  very  bread,  from  bending  twig, 
and  bearded  head,  and  bursting  pod :  and  when  at  last  — 
all  other  wants  supplied  —  the  spirit  of  beauty,  wakened 
in  man's  soul,  began  to  cry,  plants  heard  the  call;  from 
leafy  bower  and  woodland  aisle,  with  graceful  form  and 
petal's  blush  they  came,  to  furnish  forth  at  bidding 
of  man's  choice,  a  beauty  and  a  loveliness  that  shall  one 
day  deck  the  earth  redeemed. 


THE  ALAMOGORDO  DESERT 

The  Response  of  Plants  to  Changes  Terrestrial 

The  Alamogordo  desert  of  southern  New  Mexico  lies  im- 
mediately west  of  the  one  hundred  sixth  meridian,  west, 
and  approximately  between  thirty-two  and  thirty-four, 
north.  It  is  bounded  on  the  north  by  the  Oscuro  range  of 
mountains,  on  the  east  by  the  Sacramentos,  on  the  south 
by  the  Jarillas  and  the  Organ  mountains,  on  the  west  by 
the  San  Andreas.  As  here  defined,  therefore,  the  desert 
is  of  comparatively  limited  area,  one  hundred  or  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  miles  from  north  to  south,  and 
perhaps  thirty-five  to  fifty  from  east  to  west ;  a  very  con- 
venient little  desert,  easily  manageable,  one  might  sup- 
pose, for  any  naturalist,  who,  with  inborn  love  of  adven- 
ture, starts  out  in  search  of  the  wilderness  to  find  scenes 
and  pastures  new. 

The  desert  of  Alamogordo  or  Tularosa  is  a  great  plain, 
not  unmarked,  however,  by  singular  topographic  inequal- 
ities later  on  to  be  described.  Only  the  most  casual  geo- 
logic examination  is  sufficient  to  show  that  the  plain  floor 
corresponds  stratigraphically  with  the  beds  in  some 
places  exposed  at  or  near  the  tops  of  the  surrounding 
mountains,  in  any  case  far  up  their  flanks.  On  the  east 
especially  limestones  of  carboniferous  age  rise  sheer  some 
one  thousand  feet  or  more  straight  up  from  the  desert 
floor,  and  are  again  capped  by  other  strata  only  at  length, 


The  Alamogordo  Desert 


157 


perhaps  a  thousand  feet  higher,  surmounted  by  materials 
correspondent  with  those  in  the  level  of  the  plain.  On 
the  west  the  same  thing  is  true;  but  more  emphasized 
still  is  the  difference  in  level  between  segments  of  corre- 
sponding strata.  Here  the  weird  Organ  mountains 
break  the  horizon  by  upthrust  spires  and  pinnacles  of 
granite  *  which  to  some  early  voyageur  crossing  these 
dusty  plains  suggested  the  pipes  and  architecture  of 
some  far-off  organ,  and  the  mountains  were  so  named; 
but  upturned  granite  means  that  the  sedimentary  rocks 
are  here  further  uplifted  still  than  on  the  eastern  side, 
so  that  we  quickly  find  ourselves  in  presence  of  vast  par- 
allel faults  and  our  desert  lies  thus  between  their  giant 
walls.  It  is  as  if  half  the  region  between  this  city  2  and 
New  York  should  suddenly  sink  two  or  three  thousand 
feet,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  it  is  as  if  the  several 
thousand  feet  of  difference  in  level  were  brought  about 
by  the  depression  of  the  included  area,  and  the  simul- 
taneous elevation  of  the  sides.  At  any  rate  the  desert 
plain  of  the  Alamogordo  or  Tularosa  sands  is  simply  the 
upper  surface  of  a  gigantic  block  of  the  earth's  crust 
that  sank  some  time  subsequent  to  the  deposition  of  the 
Jura-Trias  and  the  earlier  cretaceous  strata  of  this  west- 
ern world.  These  strata  include,  as  we  know,  the  famous 
"red  beds"  which  tinge  the  mountains  of  half  the  con- 
tinent, the  red  beds  with  all  their  gypsum,  marls,  and 
salts  of  every  description.  Accordingly,  as  a  result  of 
this  faulting,  our  desert  has  for  its  foundation  every- 
where great  fields  of  gypsum,  often  for  long  distances 
wide-exposed,  sometimes  thinly  veiled  by  loosened  sand, 

1  So  reported.  *'  ' 

2  Philadelphia. 


158  On  the  Campus 

sometimes  deep  buried  by  vast  deposits  of  wine-red  marls 
and  clays,  or  covered  anon  by  the  products  of  erosion, 
whether  by  water  or  by  wind.  The  waters  from  the 
mountain  snows  have  brought  their  debris;  the  winds  of 
the  desert  have  come  with  their  burden,  but  nowhere  has 
such  transportation  traversed  the  desert  borders,  at  least 
in  recent  times;  there  are  to-day  no  excurrent  nor  per- 
current  streams;  the  winds  die  along  the  mountain  walls 
and  the  waters  sink  in  the  desiccated  sands. 

But  this  is  not  all.  This  great  sunken  block  of  earth's 
crust  seems  itself  to  have  been  cracked  again  and  again ; 
there  are  secondary  faults,  and  along  the  line  of  one  of 
these  thinner  or  weaker  places  the  subterranean  energies 
of  the  world  have  some  time  found  emergence.  Floods 
of  lava  welled  up  in  the  midst  of  the  desert,  and  foun- 
tains of  fire  streamed  along  the  ground,  following  exis- 
tent topography  for  miles  and  miles,  now  narrowing  to 
dimensions  measured  by  rods  between  low  ranges  of  hills, 
now  widening  for  miles  across  the  broader  valleys,  only 
to  lie  at  last  a  vast  field  of  blackened  cinder,  slowly  dis- 
integrated by  the  desert  storms.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
peculiar  topographic  features  of  the  whole  desert.  As 
things  terrestrial  go,  this  is  a  recent  phenomenon.  The 
age  of  lava  may  be  measured  by  centuries,  a  few  thou- 
sand years,  it  would  seem,  at  most.  The  surface  over 
which  it  poured  was  a  friable,  marly  soil.  As  the  floods 
cooled,  the  mass  cracked  and  gaped  in  every  direction. 
Rains  descending  upon  the  surface  sank  to  the  ground 
below  and  shaped  for  themselves  channels.  The  lava  so 
undermined  has  fallen  into  a  tumbled  mass  of  weirdness 
and  confusion,  indescribable,  impassable. 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  159 

The  lava  constitutes  one  of  the  features  of  this  remark- 
able desert;  there  is  yet  another.  Along  the  western 
border,  partly  by  erosion,  partly  uncovered  by  the  west- 
ern winds,  great  bodies  of  gypsum  lie  exposed.  As  this 
slowly  disintegrates  the  wind  gathers  the  particles  set 
free  and  bears  them  eastward;  the  famous  white  sands, 
covering  township  after  township  with  drifted  mineral, 
white  as  snow.  Vast  windrows  shifting  slowly  with  every 
storm,  and  forever  reinforced  by  the  unceasing  contribu- 
tions of  the  west,  mark  the  landscape  over  several  hun- 
dred square  miles,  unique,  intact,  forever  changing,  yet 
the  same  forever. 

Added  to  these  peculiar  and  special  topographic  de- 
tails of  this  surprising  desert  we  have,  of  course,  those 
less  noteworthy,  the  common  every-day  features  of  desert 
make-up :  we  have  mountain  slopes,  rocky  fields  and  hill- 
sides, eroded  valleys,  marshy  sinks,  where  lose  themselves 
the  vanishing  torrential  streams;  wide  plains  of  marly 
clay;  belts  of  sand-dunes,  red  sands,  yellow  sands,  also 
shifting  and  moving,  but  better  subservient  to  the  vege- 
tation of  the  region,  these  present  simply  vast  fields  of 
low  hills  or  hummocks  ten  to  twenty  feet  in  height,  sep- 
arated on  every  side  by  tortuous  valleys,  winding  in 
labyrinthine  fashion,  wind-swept  hard  and  bare. 

One  other  topographic  feature  must  be  added  to  com- 
plete our  picture.  The  forces  of  erosion  even  along  the 
mountain  walls  have  kept  pace  fairly  well,  at  least,  with 
the  changes  in  level.  Great  canons  break  back  even 
through  the  hard,  encrinitic  limestones,  dividing  again 
and  again  where  the  waters  have  carved  the  rugged  path- 
way by  which  the  explorer  may  now  reach  the  mountain 


160  On  the  Campus 

summit.  The  result  of  this  erosion  forms  a  wide  talus 
around  the  desert,  spreading  great  fan-shaped  deposits 
at  the  mouth  of  the  canon,  where  immense  blocks  and 
boulders  choke  the  exit,  succeeded  by  ever  smaller  rocks 
and  pebbles  farther  out  until  at  length  only  the  finest 
silt  is  swept  along  from  the  widened  margin  far  across 
the  almost  perfectly  level  plain. 

Now  it  is  evidently  needless  to  say  to  every  wisest  man 
in  an  ecologically  minded  audience  such  as  this,  that 
every  one  of  these  peculiar  topographic  features,  whether 
special  or  not,  will  display  its  own  peculiar  flora.  True, 
this  is  not  always  the  case;  this  desert  must  be  studied 
in  its  entirety,  and  it  will  require  months  of  patient  re- 
search to  even  sketch  its  far-reaching  problems.  As  a 
whole  the  flora  may  be  said  to  be  that  of  our  western 
arid  regions  generally,  and  yet,  after  all,  it  is  not  just 
like  that  of  any  other  region,  north,  south,  east,  or  west ; 
not  that  it  has  peculiar  species  perhaps,  but  that  it  has 
its  own  particular  groups  of  species. 

Two  factors,  and  two  alone,  as  it  seems  to  me,  deter- 
mine the  phytology  of  this  desert;  the  one,  difference  in 
the  constitution  of  the  soil,  referable  to  its  geological  his- 
tory; the  other,  difference  in  level  referable  to  the  same 
initiative.  Thus  there  is  a  peculiar  flora  on  the  sands 
whether  white  or  red,  another  on  the  silted  plains  less 
liable  to  transportation  by  the  wind,  another  where  the 
salts  emerge,  whether  in  briny  springs  and  fountains  or- 
as  crystals  whitening  the  surface  of  the  ground ;  another 
for  the  mountain  shelves,  and  still  another  for  their  far- 
off  summits. 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  161 

The  El  Paso  Northeastern  Railway  passes  the  desert 
on  its  eastern  side.  There  are  two  stations  on  the  line 
where  for  several  miles  in  every  direction  the  surface  is  a 
red-brown  sand.  One  of  these  stations  has  been  by  the 
railroad  people  appropriately  named  Desert,  the  other  is 
Escondida.  The  level  of  the  two  stations  is  the  same, 
four  thousand  feet,  and  the  flora  is  identical,  although 
the  points  are  thirty  miles  apart.  Each,  however,  is  by 
itself  unique  and  entirely  separate  from  the  other.  The 
dominant  species  is  Yucca  radiosa,  so  much  so  that  these 
points  are  called  the  yucca  desert.  Of  course,  the  almost 
ubiquitous  mesquite  is  there  and  Atriplex  canescens  and 
Artemisia  species.  There  are  other  species  to  be  sure, 
such  as  forms  of  Chrysotliamnus  and  Ephedra,  but  the 
plants  first  named  give  to  the  plain  its  character  as  far 
as  vegetation  goes,  and  in  topography  as  well :  they  not 
only  thrive  here  and  come  to  abundant  flower  and  fruit, 
but  they  hold  these  peculiar  sands  otherwise  driven 
about  the  world  by  desert  winds. 

Now  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  the  white  sands,  thirty 
or  forty  miles  off  to  the  northeast,  exhibit  an  almost 
identical  flora.  The  student  hastens  across  the  inter- 
vening desert  to  meet  that  shining  wall,  expecting  to 
find  all  things  new ;  but,  behold,  the  white  sands  are  sands 
first  of  all  rather  than  anything  else.  Whatever  their 
chemistry,  and  they  have  their  peculiar  problem  for  the 
chemist,  only  a  vegetation  that  can  endure  a  moving, 
shifting  terrene  can  flourish  here.  The  white  sands  form 
accordingly  part  of  the  yucca  desert.  Their  relation  to 
vegetation  is  almost  purely  physical,  but  they  exhibit 


162  On  the  Campus 

some  peculiarities.  They  are  gypsum,  as  everybody 
knows,1  but  while  they  move  as  other  sands,  they  must 
be  compared  with  wet  sands.  The  vast  drifts,  thirty  to 
fifty  feet  in  height,  are  moist  often  to  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  surface,  and  are  so  compactly  driven  that  one  may 
walk  upon  the  solid  surface  with  comparative  ease.  A 
white  wall  like  to  the  appearance  of  marble  is  moving 
slowly  eastward,  whelming  all  vegetation  as  it  goes,  some 
of  which,  able  to  grow  through  the  encroaching  mass, 
persists  so  that  all  the  plants  now  appearing  on  the  sur- 
face, so  far  as  examined,  are  anchored  by  lengthened 
stems  or  roots  to  the  underlying  older  soil.  The  same 
yucca  that  appears  at  Escondida  here  emerges  sometimes 
by  green  tips  from  a  snow-white  drift  twenty  feet  in 
height,  or  anon,  seems  to  crown  triumphantly  some 
lower  mound.  The  mesquite  holds  on,  in  some  places  a 
desperate  fight,  and  certain  species  of  Rhus,  R.  aromat- 
ica  and  R.  trilobata,  perhaps,  maintain  a  perilous  exis- 
tence out  over  the  whole  region,  sometimes  even  on  the 
summits  of  the  highest  knolls.  These  sumacs  are  the 
characteristic  species  of  the  white  sands. 

But  let  us  turn  north.  A  journey  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
miles  brings  us  to  the  black  wall  of  the  lava  flow.  This 

i  The  following  analysis  of  this  material  has  been  kindly  fur- 
nished me  by  Dr.  L.  S.  Andrews,  late  of  the  Mallinekrodt  Chem- 
ical Works,  St.  Louis: 

Calcium  sulphate,  CaSO4 77. 64  per  cent. 

Water,  H20 20.55 

Calcium  carbonate,  CaCO3 0 . 95         ' ' 

Silica  and  undetermined,  SiO2,  etc 0 . 86         ' ' 

100.00         " 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  163 

is  a  fearful  region.  The  Mexicans  call  it  mal  pws,  ' l  bad 
country";  giant  floods  whose  waves  are  stone,  fields  and 
fissures,  caverns,  holes,  pits,  and  wells,  alternating  with 
tilted  slopes,  knife-edge  culms  and  ridges,  make  a  topog- 
raphy weird,  impassable,  fascinating  because  so  unap- 
proachable. Yet  the  mal  pa/is  is  covered  with  vegeta- 
tion. Of  course,  the  vegetation  changes,  but  by  no 
means  as  one  might  easily  suppose.  Here  is  no  new 
species,  no  variety  of  a  species,  when  the  desert  is  studied 
as  a  whole.  The  change  is  correspondent  to  a  change  in 
level.  The  lava  beds  are  high,  and  they  are  crowned 
with  the  flora  of  their  own  altitude.  We  shall  meet  it  on 
the  foothills  of  all  the  mountains  we  presently  ascend. 
Here  is  no  alteration  of  soil,  for  the  only  soil  is  that  de- 
posited by  the  wind,  the  lava  itself  perfectly  intractable. 
Here  are  the  familiar  mountain  cedar,  Jumperus  ocd- 
dentalis-,  cholla,  sometimes  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  high, 
where,  springing  in  some  ragged  well-hole,  it  seems  to 
peer  out  above  the  sooty  walls  that  hem  it  in ;  here  is  the 
mountain  barberry.  Even  the  nut  pine,  Pinus  edulis, 
has  mistaken  these  pitchy  steeps  for  the  clayey  flanks  of 
its  usual  mountain  fastness,  and  now  and  then  rivals  the 
cedar  in  its  hold  upon  the  jagged  upturned  edges  of  these 
flinty  sheets.  Even  the  lava-beds  have  not  apparently 
affected  the  general  character  of  the  desert  flora. 

At  the  south  ends  of  these  black  fields,  however,  emerge 
great  springs.  Here  all  the  plain  is  saturated  with  salt 
and  alkali,  and  here  is  a  peculiar  flora  conditioned  by 
this  fact.  The  waters  emerge  almost  from  the  edge  of 
the  lava  sheets,  and  tufts  of  Suceda  and  Allenrolfia  are 


164  On  the  Campus 

set  close  against  the  lava  wall.     This  is  ideal;  this  we 
should  expect  and  here  it  is. 

The  sands  and  the  lava  lie  in  the  middle  of  our  desert. 
If  we  take  these  as  a  starting  point  and  move  toward 
the  summit  of  the  mountains,  the  successive  belts  of 
vegetation  gradually  shape  themselves  so  that  we  learn 
presently  to  identify  them  by  their  color.  A  plain  below 
the  general  level  is  gray,  grass-covered,  with  here  and 
there  a  bunch  of  ephedra  or  nopal,  no  yuccas,  no  atri- 
plex,  no  other  forms  of  cactus.  As  the  terrene  rises  to 
the  silt-plain,  thickets  of  cholla  alternate  with  mesquite 
'and  the  crucifixion  thorn;  not  that  other  species  do  not 
occur,  but  these  are  dominant,  give  to  the  belt  its  charac- 
'ter  and  color.  A  little  further  mountainward  and  we 
reach  the  Covittea  tridentata,  ever  in  bloom,  which  lies 
as  a  girdle  of  green  and  gold  around  the  whole  base  of 
the  mountain  range,  visible  for  miles  and  marking  for 
us  the  limits  of  the  talus  with  an  exactness  that  is  re- 
markable. Beyond  the  covillea  belt  come  the  cacti  as 
the  terrene  becomes  more  rocky;  MamiUaria,  with  its 
species  numerous  and  varied,  the  unique  but  widely  dis- 
tributed ocatilla,  the  prickly  pear,  often  in  giant  form  — 
all  these  cover  the  rocky  slopes  that  lead  up  to  the  steeper 
walls  of  paleozoic  rocks.  Sometimes,  where  a  shelf  oc- 
curs, and  the  bare  limestone  forms  a  flat,  mesa-like  field, 
the  yuccas  come  back,  but  not  the  Escondida  form,  with 
Agave  parryi,  and  abundant  ocatilla,  while  in  the  rocky 
defile  below,  locked  amid  gigantic  boulders,  now  on  their 
tardy  journey  to  the  talus  plain,  the  creamy  flowers  and 
fruit  of  dasyliria  lift  their  glorious  spikes,  the  envy  and 
vexation  of  the  photographer. 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  165 

The  strata  of  the  lower  carboniferous  limestones  now 
confront  us ;  crystalline,  enerinitic,  and  exceedingly  hard, 
rising  often  hundreds  of  feet  sheer  up  and  down.  But 
these  dry  walls  likewise  have  their  flora.  MamiUaria 
micromeris  matches  with  its  hoary  spheres  the  weathered 
stone  or  lights  it  up  betimes  with  scarlet  bloom,  and 
Notholcena  serrata  fills  with  sombre  tufts  every  shattered 
crevice. 

But  the  upper  members  of  the  carboniferous  are  much 
softer  and,  amenable  to  erosion,  present  a  gentler,  flow- 
ing topography.  These  slopes  are  everywhere  clothed 
with  oak,  not  trees,  indeed  far  from  it;  low  dense  shrubs, 
the  so-called  shin-oak,  Quercus  gambelUi  and  Quercus 
gunnisoni.  These  two  species  form  pale  green  belts 
around  the  mountains,  and  are  recognized  easily,  distin- 
guishable for  miles.  These  species  indeed  form  a  sort 
of  phytographic  border  land;  all  below  is  desert;  all 
above  is  forest;  for  above  stands,  or  lately  stood,  one  of 
the  fairest  bits  of  woodland  in  the  United  States,  and 
*that  means  in  the  world.  But  this  forest  is  again  in 
large  measure  conformable  to  geologic  structure,  its  dis- 
tribution determined  by  the  history  of  what  lies  beneath. 

As  we  ascend  the  mountain,  passing  all  the  carbon- 
iferous limestones,  sands,  chalk-beds,  and  shales,  we  pres- 
ently encounter  the  "red  beds"  already  mentioned,  the 
most  remarkable  geological  horizon  in  the  country,  fa- 
miliar to  every  student  of  our  central  mountains,  noted 
even  by  the  ordinary  tourist,  the  same  wherever  found  — 
in  Utah,  Colorado,  the  Black  Hills  of  South  Dakota,  and 
here  again  in  these  far-off  mountains  of  the  Mexican 
border,  the  same  vast  gypsum-burdened  deposits  of  clay 


1 66  On  the  Campus 

and  shale  and  sand.  The  red  beds  yield  easily  to  erosion. 
The  washings  from  their  wasted  flanks  have  tinged  the 
desert  far  below,  and  reddened  the  walls  of  every  rocky 
canon  on  the  way.  Sloping  terraces  and  flat-topped  hills 
afford  a  soil  rocky  but  not  infertile,  supporting  once 
more  its  own  peculiar  vegetation.  Here  are  still  the 
shin-oaks,  it  is  true,  but  all  overshadowed  by  other  nobler 
trees;  here  is  Berberis  trifoUata,  the  Texan  barberry; 
here  is  Pinus  edulis,  Engelmann's  nut  pine,  and  most 
characteristic  and  perfect  of  all,  here  stands  Juniperus 
pachyphlmum,  the  mountain  juniper,  great  forests  of  it, 
ancient  trees  betimes,  all  comparatively  low,  but  with 
giant  trunks  six  or  eight  feet  in  diameter;  these  time- 
defying  cedars  are  the  trees  of  the  red  beds.  With  the 
junipers,  especially  as  we  pass  their  upper  limits  and 
come  out  upon  the  calcareous  cretaceous  swells  and 
plains,  occur  another  oak  or  two.  The  soils  are  now  re- 
markably rich  in  lime.  The  waters  that  fall  on  the 
higher  mountain  levels  escape  above  the  red  bed  shales, 
but  so  impregnated  with  lime  that  they  actually  form  a 
new  stony  deposit  often  for  a  distance  of  many  rods 
about  the  point  of  exit.  On  these  calcareous  soils  stands 
now  the  forest,  along  the  very  summit  of  the  mountain, 
nine  thousand  feet  above  sea-level,  a  magnificent  forest 
of  spruce  and  pine  and  fir:  Pseudotsuga,  mucronata,  the 
Douglas  spruce,  five  or  six  feet  in  thickness;  Abies  con- 
color ;  Pinus  ponderosa  in  beautiful  perfection  of  its  im- 
mortal youth;  Pinus  flexilis  at  its  very  best;  a  typical 
Oregon  forest  six  or  eight  miles  wide  and  some  twenty 
long,  crowning  the  summit  of  this  isolated  mountain 
peak  in  the  midst  of  the  deserts  of  southern  New  Mexico, 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  167 

for,  as  everybody  knows,  these  are  in  general  species  of 
the  forest  of  the  far  Pacific  Coast.  As  one  stands  now 
at  last  thus  at  the  very  summit  of  his  problem,  and  from 
some  promontory  rock  of  vantage  looks  out  upon  the  vast 
plain  thus  mountain-girt,  the  indescribable  beauty  of  the 
scene  must  first  impress  him.  Far  to  the  west  lie  the 
San  Andreas,  the  Organ,  and  the  Oscuro  ranges,  a  long 
low  wall,  grey  and  solid,  its  serrate  summits  indentured 
in  the  azure  sky;  below,  the  plain,  brilliantly  lighted, 
soft  and  brown  and  lucid,  save  as  the  mal  pcvis  stretches 
its  blackness  as  a  bar  sinister  across  the  northern  end, 
while  away  to  the  south  the  gypsum  desert  seems  a  cloud 
of  snow  beneath  our  feet,  more  brilliant  than  that  evan- 
escent whiteness  that  floats  in  the  deep  blue  far  above  — 
the  one  the  strange  counterpart  of  the  other;  all  is  so 
silent,  so  changeless,  and  so  fair! 

But  just  now  we  heed  not  the  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape ;  other  thoughts  come  crowding  upon  the  observer, 
all  equally  insistent  and  impressive.  Evidence  of  enor- 
mous physical  change  thrusts  itself  upon  our  astonished 
attention;  not  the  sunken  desert  itself  alone,  that  great 
block  already  described,  but  the  denuded  and  sundered 
mountain  walls,  the  great  canons  that  stretch  back  for 
miles,  cut  down  through  even  the  solid  limestones  at  the 
mountain  base  —  a  process  vast  and  old.  Once  the  cre- 
taceous sea  rolled  here,  and  when  it  retreated  here  were 
beds  of  limestone  hundreds  of  feet  thick.  Where  are 
they  now  ?  Only  here  and  there  a  remnant  on  the  moun- 
tain summit;  the  desert  is  covered  with  their  debris  al- 
most to  the  distant  sea. 

Nor  less  is  one  impressed  by  the  slowness  of  all  this 


1 68  On  the  Campus 

topographic  change.  There  is  evidence  of  violence,  sud- 
denness, nowhere,  save  in  the  mat  pais,  which  is  local, 
recent,  and  does  not  affect  the  general  problem.  The 
moving  currents  of  the  air,  the  soft  ministrations  of  the 
summer  shower,  the  melting  winter  snows,  have  carved 
these  mountains,  are  sculpturing  them  to-day.  Those 
"columnar  whirlwinds  that  even  now  like  dancing  der- 
vishes chase  each  other  across  the  plain,  are  shaping 
anew  the  desert ;  that  thin  cloud  that  hangs  yonder  like  a 
banner  from  the  mountain  top  is  a  rainstorm,  changing 
even  now  the  general  altitude  of  the  range. 

But  once  again :  as  we  look  out  thus  from  the  summit 
of  our  problem  we  are  impressed  with  still  another  fact 
more  far-reaching,  more  splendid  still.  The  whole  living 
covering  of  the  world,  the  vegetative  garment  of  the 
desert  and  the  mountain,  conforms  exactly  to  the  sur- 
face, to  soil  and  level,  no  doubt  with  an  exactness  that  we 
have  only  begun  to  guess  or  understand.  There  is  a 
mathematical  line  that  limits  the  distribution  of  every 
plant,  but  that  line  forever  shifts  and  varies.  The  topog- 
raphy varies,  except  the  mat  pais,  by  changes  so  slight, 
so  delicate,  as  to  be  imperceptible  to  eyes  unskilled,  and 
with  the  topography  varies  its  covering  of  life. 

Let  us  say  first  that  these  topographic  changes  will 
change  the  limits  of  distribution.  Once  the  sands  cover 
the  silt  plains,  and  the  grasses  will  vanish  while  yucca  and 
artemisia  succeed.  Widen  the  talus  and  covillea  will 
stretch  farther  its  golden  scepter.  But  the  problem  runs 
far  deeper  than  this.  As  the  face  of  the  world  undergoes 
these  delicate,  subtle  changes,  the  plant  responds  in 
something  far  more  than  shifting  distribution.  A  plant, 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  169 

as  every  student  of  botany  well  knows,  is  the  most  plastic 
sort  of  an  organism  in  the  world,  responding  in  every 
sort  of  way  to  its  environment.  We  who  study  the  mi- 
croscopic structure  of  the  humblest  plants  understand 
the  limitless  possibilities  here.  When  we  reflect  that  the 
suppression  of  a  single  cell  at  the  critical  moment  may 
change  the  direction  of  an  axis  or  alter  the  contour  of  a 
leaf,  it  is  hard  to  set  too  high  an  estimate  upon  the  pos- 
sible response  made  by  a  simple  plant  to  environmental 
variations,  however  delicate.  We  who  study  the  physi- 
ology of  the  plant,  peer  into  its  changing  cells,  and  strive 
in  imagination  to  reproduce  the  marvelously  intricate 
reactions  —  physical,  chemical  —  that  forever  shift  and 
play  within  those  narrow  limits  —  we  need  not  be  told 
that  every  vegetable  cell  has  in  it  opportunities  a  thou- 
sandfold to  match  and  meet  all  the  subtle  changes  sug- 
gested by  the  slow-creeping  but  implacable  forces  that 
work  out  the  physiognomy  of  this  time-worn  earth.  A 
little  more  calcium  here,  a  little  more  phosphorus  there, 
sulphates,  nitrates,  and  the  rest,  and  the  thing  is  done. 
Nay,  when  we  even  think  of  the  form  in  which  all  energy 
comes  from  yon  distant  sun,  and  the  delicate  machinery 
on  which  it  plays,  we  need  seek  no  further  occasion  for 
the  intervention  of  every  sort  of  outer  cosmic  force.  Not 
a  tree  on  all  the  Iowa  prairies  but  shows  in  its  every 
lineament,  in  its  very  expression,  a  response  to  the  Iowa 
environment ;  and  so,  we  may  be  sure,  every  desert  plant 
records  in  its  present  form  and  stature  all  the  affirma- 
tions, all  the  responses  it  has  made  in  all  the  centuries 
to  the  bidding,  the  silent  bidding,  the  most  gentle  coax- 
ing, of  the  world  external.  For,  note  you,  the  call  for 


170  On  the  Campus 

change  at  any  given  instant  has  not  been  great ;  the  slow 
upheaval  of  these  mountains,  their  peaceful  gentle  re- 
moval by  the  winds  and  rain;  that  is  all;  that  has 
changed  and  is  changing  the  living  world.  Where  the 
terrestrial  call  is  rude  or  sudden,  response  there  is  none. 
The  lava  beds  show  no  single  characteristic  species. 
Their  flora  is  simply  that  of  their  own  rocky  level.  Nor 
could  here  any  sudden  initiative  on  the  part  of  the  plant 
avail.  The  adaptation  is  absolute  now,  and  to  vary  save 
as  the  environment  varies  would  simply  invite  disaster. 
As  well  the  tadpole  suddenly  assume  lungs  or  the  lizard 
put  on  feathers. 

Nor  is  this  all.  Our  desert  as  it  lies  shining  here  be- 
fore us  is  but  a  fraction  of  that  wider,  vaster  desert  that 
covers  all  the  south  and  west.  Across  the  Organ  and 
San  Andreas  yonder  is  another  desert  exactly  compar- 
able to  that  we  study;  all  Arizona,  southern  California, 
Sonora,  Chihuahua,  much  the  same;  here  and  there  a 
mountain  summit  tufted  with  forest,  western  in  type, 
high  slopes  thinly  clad  with  stunted  juniper,  benches  of 
covillea,  wide  low  plains  covered  with  mesquite,  with 
yucca  and  cactus  and  all  the  less  noble  plants  that  stand 
between;  and  our  problem  widens,  becomes  vast  as  the 
continent,  and  any  answer  that  we  make  must  be  far- 
reaching  as  the  flora  of  a  world. 

Our  desert  lies  shining  here  before  us ;  but  not  one  of 
these  plants  except  the  cactus  is  in  broader  sense  unique ; 
each  has  its  kin  rising  in  happier  fields  to  fairer  fortune. 
The  yuccas  are  lilies,  but  lilies  bloom  in  Bermuda  and 
in  Teneriffe,  and  in  every  most  fertile  garden  of  the 
world.  The  mesquite  is  a  prosopis,  but  the  genus  Proso- 


The  Alamogordo  Desert  171 

pis  shows  many  a  handsome  forest  tree,  and  even  the 
mesquite  in  the  Arizona  Valley,  where  conditions  are  less 
hard,  rises  a  forest  with  trees  fifty  feet  in  height.  The 
cactus,  as  I  read  it,  with  undifferentiated  floral  leaves 
and  abundant  sporophylls,  is  an  ancient  adaptation  to 
an  ancient  desert,  possibly  pre-cretaceous,  and  takes  pos- 
session of  the  world  just  so  fast  as  the  world  becomes 
desert;  unstable  in  cultivation,  not  because  new,  but  be- 
cause reversionary. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  necessarily  that  the  Alamogordo 
desert  flora  has  had  its  origin  where  it  stands,  although 
such  a  contingency  is  not  impossible  of  thought.  Had 
this  been  the  only  desert  on  the  continent  its  flora  is  as 
might  have  been  expected.  But  there  are  a  hundred 
similar  intra-montane  regions  whose  geologic  history  is 
the  same.  These  have  in  similar  fashion  orginally 
shaped  a  flora  each  for  itself.  No  doubt  once  similar 
conditions  are  set  up  in  regions  at  first  unlike,  an  ex- 
change of  species  may  take  place.  American  cacti  are  at 
home  in  the  deserts  of  Europe,  and  the  Russian  thistle 
flourishes  on  Dakota  plains. 

The  desert  lies  shining  here  before  us,  changing  for- 
ever, but  all  its  changes  are  of  imperceptible  delicacy 
and  slowness.  Its  methods  would  seem  not  different 
from  those  by  which  nature  has  from  the  first  essayed 
the  education  of  the  vegetable  world.  Between  salt  water 
and  fresh  all  conditions  offer  by  infinitesimal  shadings 
where  the  rivers  meet  the  sea,  thus  green  plants  first 
emerged  from  ocean;  all  conditions  from  shore-line  low- 
water  mark  to  dry  land;  thus  the  plants  at  length  sat 
on  the  shore,  wet  only  by  tides  or  by  the  gentle  rain;  all 


172  On  the  Campus 

conditions  of  level  by  which  the  plants  occupy  the  king- 
dom of  the  upper  air;  all  conditions  of  spore-union  by 
which  they  meet  at  length  the  problem  of  aerial  fertiliza- 
tion ;  so  that  while  sports  there  may  be  among  plants  out- 
side the  pale  of  civilization,  nevertheless  they  must  al- 
ways be  within  limits  set  as  result  of  more  gentle  changes 
effected  by  the  slow,  and,  for  the  most  part,  exquisitely 
delicate  transformations  which  make  up  the  history  of 
the  planet.  Given  a  desert  flora,  a  cactus  flora,  for  in- 
stance, and  there  may  be  endless  species-making,  by  sport 
if  you  will,  or  otherwise,  but  in  every  case  a  cactus ;  but 
the  cactus  itself  is  the  child  of  continental  movements 
which  brought  about  some  old-time,  perhaps  cretaceous 
desert. 

Our  desert  lies  shining  here  before  us;  it  is  old  and 
silent :  would  you  know  its  secret,  read  the  rocky  records 
that  lie  behind,  around,  beneath,  and  be  assured  that  once 
the  story  of  yesterday  were  understood  the  facts  of  to- 
day would  ask  no  greater  explanation.  The  physical 
forces  of  this  world  still  drive  the  loom  that  weaves  the 
web  of  life.  Before  the  loom  the  unseen  weaver  sits, 
guiding  her  web  that  passes  to  an  endless  roll,  changing 
withal  the  width,  the  pattern,  as  conditions  rise.  Changes 
her  arabesque,  it  is  for  cause;  changes  it  not,  it  is  alike 
for  cause;  and  if  at  intervals  as  we  watch,  anon  new 
figures  rise,  may  it  not  be  but  the  return  of  some  earlier 
triumphant  cycle  that  here  begins  anew,  evident  enough 
in  cause  and  feature  were  once  that  giant  scroll  unrolled, 
or  were  her  watchers  more  patient,  more  enduring.  Alas, 
in  presence  of  that  mighty  loom  what  fleeting,  evanescent 
interpreters  are  we ! 


THE  PLANT'S  RESPONSE 
The  Response  to  Human  Agency 

The  response  of  plants  to  human  preference,  plan  or 
purpose,  is  such  a  matter  of  fact  that  most  people  over- 
look it  altogether.  In  a  thousand  ways  we  take  things 
as  we  find  them.  We  never  think  of  origins,  nor  have 
we  any  sense  of  obligation,  no  more  than  that  which  may 
stir  the  breast  of  a  robin  feasting  upon  the  proverbial 
early  morning  worm.  No  doubt  the  life  of  a  man  is 
dependent  upon  the  world  of  plants  quite  as  much  as 
that  of  the  robin  upon  the  world  of  earth-worms  and 
fruits,  but  neither  man  nor  robin  concerns  himself  very 
much  about  it. 

Now  in  a  certain  sense  this  is  well.  Why  should  we 
concern  ourselves  about  the  boundless  beneficence  of 
what  we  call  Nature  ?  The  robin,  should  he  reflect  at  all, 
might  say:  "What  a  magnificent  world  is  this!'  I 
awake  in  the  morning;  the  air  is  sweet  and  pure  in 
moving  oceans  all  about  me;  my  wings  are  free;  I  sail 
unconsciously  upon  the  morning  wind  as  boats  sail  on 
the  sea;  trees  stand  everywhere,  my  island  landing- 
places.  I  feel  an  inclination  to  fill  my  mouth  with  some^ 
thing  soft  and  sweet  and  lo !  the  earth  teems  with  juicy 
things  that  meet,  exactly  meet,  my  need;  yonder  the 
cherry  stands  in  brilliant  dazzling  scarlet,  crying  out  in 
the  very  speech  and  dialect  of  the  whole  robin  tribe: 


174  On  the  Campus 

Come  eat !  Come  eat !  What  a  wondrously  fine  world  is 
this !  How  perfect  its  adaptations ;  it  was  no  doubt  made 
expressly  for  robins;  the  earth-worms  writhe  and  crawl 
for  us;  for  us  the  cherry-tree  glows  in  summer  scarlet, 
and  the  blackberry  spreads  its  harvest;  I  will  hie  me  to 
the  summit  of  yonder  waving  elm,  built  to  protect  me, 
stretching  its  leafy  arms  to  hide  my  nest  —  I  will  hie  me 
to  its  summit  and  will  sing  and  sing  and  sing ! ' ' 

The  robin  reasons  well;  he  reasons,  you  may  notice, 
exactly  as  do  men;  as  men  have  done  through  all  the 
centuries;  it  must  be  well.  Nay  rather;  he  reasons  as 
have  reasoned  the  more  thoughtful  of  mankind :  ' '  Plato, 
thou  reasonest  well."  And  yet,  we  who  look  upon  the 
situation  from  without  may  easily  perceive  the  robin's 
limitations.  Possibly  the  earth-worm  exists  for  his  own 
sake  after  all;  and  the  cherry-tree  —  a  word  from  the 
farmer  not  only  spoils  all  this  the  robin's  specious  argu- 
ment but  may  even  silence  forever  that  early  morning 
song.  Where  then  is  all  our  harmony,  our  beauteous 
adaption  to  purpose,  and  plan  of  this  created  world? 
Alas  for  robins  and  for  men,  it  lies  far  deeper;  we  are 
just  now  beginning  in  our  later  thoughts  to  see  something 
of  the  trend  and  purpose  of  it ;  to  find  it  more  profound 
than  all  our  learning,  wiser  than  all  human  thought. 
The  trouble  in  these  things  is  with  men  as  with  robins; 
the  view  is  not  wide  enough;  research  goes  not  far 
enough ;  we  follow  our  little  lines  and  think  them  ended 
when  we  lose  ikem\  we  light  our  little  lamps  and  catch 
their  glimmering  reflections  on  the  world  about  us,  but 
forget  that  only  infinity  can  comprehend  infinity;  that 
only  an  infinite  ocean  can  return  the  light  of  perfect,  to 
say  nothing  of  absolute  truth. 


The  Plant's  Response 


175 


But  let  us  go  back  to  our  cherry-tree  and  our  robin. 
When  it  comes  to  priority  of  claim  it  is  probable  that  the 
title  of  the  robin  far  outruns,  and  would,  if  fairly  present- 
ed, hold  in  any  court  in  Christendom.  Cherries,  in  the 
first  place,  are  in  response  to  the  keen  eyes  and  fairly 
keen  taste  of  birds.  Wild  cherries  there  are  in  abun- 
dance; made  for  robins;  but  the  robin  meanwhile  has 
played  his  own  part  in  the  making  of  them.  There,  my 
friends,  is  where  all  our  reasoning  hitherto  has  failed  us. 
We  have  failed  to  realize  the  part  that  robins  and  men 
play  in  their  own  destinies ;  content  in  the  assertion  that 
"in  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,"  we  have  failed  to  perceive  that  in  his  infinite 
wisdom  robins  and  men  are  alike  co-workers  together 
with  him  in  the  sublime  emprise,  —  that  in  the  result,  as 
hitherto  revealed,  all  things  organic  are  in  greater  or  less 
degree  participant. 

The  storage  of  a  minute  modicum  of  starch  or  sugar 
has  from  the  beginning  been  of  advantage  to  the  germin- 
ating plantlet  which  is  of  course  the  essential  part  of  the 
seed;  but  such  store  of  starch  or  sugar  is  also  a  prime 
element  in  the  food  of  animals.  These  accordingly  early 
learned  to  feed  upon  vegetable  seed  or  fruit,  and  in  so 
doing  lent  their  aid  to  the  dispersal  of  plants  over  the 
habitable  earth.  Now  plants  are  great  expansionists. 
Those  whose  seeds  spring  in  the  greatest  number  of  lo- 
calities are  more  likely  to  persist.  Hence  the  consump- 
tion of  the  plant-fruit  by  animals  is  an  advantage,  pro- 
vided only  the  germinating  power  of  the  seed  survive. 
The  food  of  the  robin  is  therefore  at  once  a  response  of 
the  plant  to  a  condition ;  a  bit  of  strategy  on  the  chess- 


176  On  the  Campus 

board  of  Nature  to  prevent  check-mate.  The  thickening 
and  hardening  of  the  wall  enclosing  the  embryo  was 
the  first  move ;  the  sweetening  and  coloring  of  the  outer 
cover  of  the  fruit,  the  second.  That  is,  —  granted  that 
the  animal's  service  is  an  advantage,  then  it  is  evident 
that  that  plant  will  receive  more  frequent  service  which 
proves  to  its  serving  visitors  more  attractive.  The  sweet- 
er the  cherry  up  to  the  limits  of  the  bird's  appreciation 
of  sweet,  and  the  more  clearly  contrasted  against  the 
foliage  of  the  tree,  the  greater  the  number  of  visitors,  the 
more  wide  the  dispersal  of  the  seeds. 

This  gave  us  the  wild  cherry  of  all  forests,  and  is  the 
limit  of  differentiation,  as  between  bird  and  fruit.  In 
the  old  world  the  wild  cherry  is  native  of  central  Asia 
and  its  small  sweet  fruit  is  black  or  wMte.  Now  comes 
the  agency  of  man.  If  the  cherry  has  responded  to 
birds,  much  more  promptly  to  human  selection.  Edible 
cherries  were  found  on  the  tables  of  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans, and  have  not  in  all  the  centuries  failed  us  until 
now,  when  the  thick-pulped  black  and  white  cherries  of 
California  are  carried  around  the  world.  Our  sour,  com- 
mon red  cherries  are  derived  in  similar  fashion  from 
another  very  similar  Asiatic  stock;  but,  somewhat  more 
enduring  of  our  valley  climates,  are  more  widely  known, 
and  when  the  robin  lights  next  amid  the  shining  spheres, 
reflect ;  —  he  is  there  but  to  take  his  own,  to  collect  an 
ancient  royalty.  Robins  and  birds  were  horticulturists 
ere  Adam  delved  or  Eve  span. 

The  agency  of  man  in  this  process  which  I  have  taken 
as  illustrative  of  all  the  fleshy  stone-fruits  is  therefore 
but  supplementary,  accelerative.  The  birds  evolved  the 


The  Plant's  Response 


177 


cherries;  man  has  carried  the  idea  forward  to  meet  his 
larger  mouth,  and,  better,  his  finer,  more  discriminating 
taste.  The  birds  were  content  with  small  cherries;  men 
love  big  cherries;  to  which  the  birds  do  not  object.  The 
part  played  by  man,  accordingly,  is  not  to  make  or  un- 
make cherries:  but  simply  to  forward  a  process  already 
under  way.  Dr.  Geddes  illustrates  the  matter  thus: 
"You  have  two  dozen  apples  in  your  fruit-basket  just 
beginning  to  spoil.  Each  day  you  take  the  two  best, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  few  days  or  of  a  week  there  are  ten 
rotten  apples  left.  To  a  slight  extent,  it  may  be  said, 
you  are  responsible  for  the  growing  rottenness,  for  you 
might  have  periodically  selected  the  two  worst,  but  the 
rottenness  was  there;  it  not  only  arose,  but  increased 
without  you."  Now  this  is  true  in  the  case  of  most  of 
the  plants  that  have  responded  to  man 's  enticing,  but  not 
of  all,  as  we  shall  see.  But  in  general  it  may  be  said 
that  in  all  the  intercourse  of  plants  with  men  as  now 
discussed,  the  plant  has  spoken  first;  has  given  the  hint 
and  it  has  been  the  wondrous,  the  delightful  duty  of 
human  genius  simply  to  elicit  the  fuller,  more  complete 
response. 

The  origin  of  the  cultivated  grasses  is  no  doubt  simi- 
lar, although,  in  most  cases,  the  association  is  so  very 
ancient  that  all  trace  of  the  original  form  and  type  is 
lost.  Thus  wheat  appears  to  have  been  much  the  same 
as  now  as  far  back  as  the  earliest  records  of  humanity. 
There  is  no  wild  wheat  in  the  world.  The  original  type 
is  lost.  In  the  records  of  China  wheat  is  described  2700 
years  B.  C.  as  a  gift  of  God  to  men ;  its  origin  was  lost 
then.  In  the  earliest  Egyptian  hieroglyphs  wheat  appears 


178  On  the  Campus 

to  find  a  place  and  its  sowing  is  portrayed.  Nay,  what 
is  true  but  stranger  still :  in  the  debris  of  the  lake-dwell- 
ings of  Switzerland  and  Austria,  some  of  which  are  cer- 
tainly prehistoric,  grains  of  wheat  are  found  in  abund- 
ance, like  the  existing  forms  but  smaller;  so  that  so  far 
as  the  record  shows  wheat  is  an  exceedingly  ancient  re- 
sponse to  human  selection.  You  have  heard  of  mummy 
wheat ;  that  grains  found  in  closed  human  hands  of  some 
old  agriculturist,  some  lover  of  seeds  and  their  mysterious 
hold  on  life  —  you  have  heard  that  such  seed  sown, 
grew  apace  and  confirmed  so  far  the  Egyptian  faith  in 
physical  immortality.  But,  alas,  the  story  is  but  a  touch 
of  fiction.  There  is  no  mummy  wheat,  nor  has  any  grain 
of  any  kind  from  such  a  source  been  ever  known  to 
grow.  The  Arabs  of  Egypt  have  heard  the  story,  and, 
willing  to  accommodate  the  credulity  of  the  tourist,  offer 
mummy  wheat  to  every  passer-by.  Not  seldom  the  grain 
is  Indian  corn  sent  from  the  farms  of  Iowa  and  Illinois ! 
Wheat  there  was  in  Egypt  ere  ever  Joseph  stored  the 
harvests  of  the  fruitful  years,  but  no  mummy  has  brought 
it  living  in  his  dead  and  withered  hand  down  to  this 
wonder-loving  modern  world. 

The  story  of  many  other  grains  is  not  unlike  that  of 
wheat.  Eesearch  finds  them  in  the  possession  of  prehis- 
toric man;  but  the  original  type  has  vanished.  But 
what  do  we  not  owe  to  those  old-time  gardeners  and 
farmers  who  were  skillful  to  select  and  care  for,  and 
finally  transmit,  these  wonderful  grasses,  enabling  you 
and  me  to  feed  upon  the  finest  of  the  wheat?  How 
strange  it  is  for  us,  even  in  imagination,  to  thus  look  back 
into  that  ancient  world,  of  which  otherwise  no  record 


The  Plant's  Response  179 

exists  whatever.  Look  back  with  me  into  those  dim  fields 
and  see  the  first  agriculturist  sowing  his  first  crop  of 
primeval  wheat.  What  a  step  was  that  in  the  history 
of  humanity!  How  timidly  he  must  have  essayed  his 
work,  copying  the  winds.  Wasteful  man,  casting  away 
his  meager  store.  How  must  his  faith  have  been  sorely 
tried  ere  ever  the  seed  could  grow !  No  voice  had  then 
proclaimed  to  his  encouragement,  ' '  Cast  thy  bread  upon 
the  waters,  for  thou  shalt  find  it  after  many  days." 
Then,  with  what  interest  he  saw  the  harvest  rise,  "  first 
the  blade,  then  the  ear,  then  the  full  corn  in  the  ear." 
Then  the  harvest;  look,  my  friends!  The  light  is  dim, 
but  you  can  see  him,  a  dull,  brown,  little  figure  moving 
over  the  brown  fields  in  an  atmosphere  that  seems  fra- 
gile with  antiquity,  bringing  in  the  earliest  ripened 
spikes,  the  first  fruit  of  his  own  sowing.  Was  ever 
triumph  like  unto  that !  That  one  harvest  made  possible 
the  civilization  of  the  race.  1 '  Behold  a  sower  went  forth 
to  sow!"  There  he  is  again;  far  yonder  on  the  distant 
hills,  in  the  light  of  humanity's  morning,  he  and  those 
who  walk  there  with  him.  How  little  do  they  forecast 
and  know!  What  state  of  mind  was  that,  when  to  a 
human  soul  lay  yet  undiscovered  the  one  universal  truth, 
"Whatsoever  a  man  soweth  that  shall  he  also  reap!" 

In  this  original  research  work  of  the  race  all  sorts  of 
primitive  men  took  part.  One  of  the  wonderful  things 
about  the  Japanese  to  me,  is  the  remarkable  list  of  cul- 
tivated plants  which  these  antipodes  of  ours  have  coaxed 
up  out  of  the  world  of  vegetation  around  them.  They 
have  cherries  but  they  are  not  ours,  they  have  plums 
chiefly  for  bloom,  but  some  of  those  that  they  eat,  are  not 


180  On  the  Campus 

plums  at  all;  they  are  not  even  anything  like  plums; 
some  are  the  fruits  of  an  ancient  conifer,  and  represent 
perhaps  a  one-seeded  cone.  They  are  Ginkgo  berries. 
They  have  persimmons  which  are  a  cultivated  variety  of 
a  species  akin  to  ours;  but  in  the  western  world  few 
people  eat  persimmons  and  none  attempt  their  cultiva- 
tion. The  Japanese  also  has  his  own  vegetables,  his  own 
grains,  chiefly  millet  and  rice,  the  use  of  which  he  shares 
with  his  cousin,  the  Chinaman ;  these  brown  men  discov- 
ered both. 

But  the  most  wonderful  triumph  of  the  little  brown 
man  is  not  in  his  fruits,  —  he  has  on  his  "tight  little 
island "  small  room  for  fruit  —  but  in  his  flowers.  No 
cultivated  flowers  of  the  world  surpass  those  of  Japan. 
Think  of  your  chrysanthemum,  the  pearly  white,  the 
silken  violet  or  purple,  the  perfect  gold;  think  of  your 
roses,  the  crimson  rambler,  the  yellow  climber,  the  weich- 
urian  creeper;  think  of  your  flowering  plums  that  fruit 
not,  your  flowering  cherries,  that  never  bear,  your  flow- 
ering apples,  without  pomes,  flowering  quince  —  all  these 
are  the  responses  the  plant  world  of  Japan  has  made  to 
the  homely  little  gardeners  that  for  centuries  have  moved 
in  and  out  amid  the  forests  and  meadows  of  Nippon. 
Every  dooryard  in  Japan,  small  though  it  be,  is  filled 
with  shrubs  that  bloom ;  and  when  in  April  the  blossoms 
come,  the  whole  world  as  we  know  goes  into  ecstasies, 
celebrating  out  of  doors  the  feast  of  flowers;  not  the 
formal  easter  of  our  western  coldness,  the  advent  of 
spring,  the  revival  of  life  wherein  we  hardly  dare  fore- 
cast a  life  to  be ;  but  the  feast  of  life  that  really  blooms, 
wherein  life  not  only  returns  again  but  returns  in  pur- 


The  Plant's  Response 


181 


ity,  in  gladness  and  beauty,  to  meet  the  best  we  have  of 
appreciation,  longing,  hoping;  better  than  the  fruits  we 
might  consume  —  the  fruits  that  perish  in  the  using. 

Nor  shall  we  here  forget  the  attainments  of  the  men 
of  this  western  world.  For  men  they  were,  though  Span- 
iard and  Englishman  alike  destroyed  them.  To  the 
primitive  men  of  America  the  world  owes  the  education 
of  maize;  and  the  wealth  of  Iowa  and  Illinois  is  at  this 
moment  the  response  of  a  simple  plant  to  the  gentle 
ministrations  of  the  poor  races  who  shaped  the  bowls 
and  heaped  the  mounds  from  Canada  to  Peru.  Colum- 
bus received  mahiz  from  the  poor  brown  people  of  San 
Salvador,  small  ears  of  Indian  corn,  ears  no  bigger  than 
your  fingers,  but  maize;  and  every  school-boy  knows 
how  the  Puritan  found  the  New  England  races  tilling 
the  same  wonderful  plant.  The  great  ears  that  now  en- 
rich our  fields  are  the  response  to  the  careful  tillage  and 
selection  of  our  Illinois  farmers  through  a  hundred 
years.  Tschudi  reports  two  varieties  of  maize  taken 
from  Peruvian  tombs  earlier  than  the  tombs  of  any  of 
the  Ineas,  and  Mr.  Darwin  found  "on  the  coast  of  Peru 
heads  of  maize  with  eighteen  species  of  recent  sea-shell 
imbedded  in  a  beach  which  had  been  raised  at  least  eigh- 
ty-five feet  above  the  present  level  of  the  sea."  Mr. 
Darwin  gives  this  as  evidence  of  far  greater  antiquity. 
Who  can  tell  who  first  "began  to  pluck  the  ears  of  corn 
and  to  eat." 

But  there  are  a  thousand  other  plants,  whose  origin 
is  less  obscure,  whose  response  to  the  call  of  man  has  been 
no  less  significant.  All  our  garden  vegetables  may  be 
cited  here :  but  one  in  particular  may  be  taken  to  illus- 


i8a  On  the  Campus 

trate  the  point.  Along  the  shores  of  northern  Europe, 
especially  along  the  coasts  of  Helgoland,  occurs  a  curious 
smooth,  bluish,  mustard-like  plant,  called  by  Linne  Bras- 
sica  oleracea.  In  cultivation  the  leaves  of  this  plant 
grow  so  much  faster  than  the  internodes  or  stem  that 
they  do  not  have  time  to  unroll,  and  we  have  cabbage.1 
Now  the  number  of  varieties  of  cabbage  is  very  great, 
from  the  little  tough  gnarly  forms  that  our  fathers  knew, 
to  the  great  purple  spheroids  offered  by  your  modern 
gardeners  and  grocers.  But,  cabbage  is  only  Brassica 
olerecea  responding  to  man's  preference  for  its  mon- 
strous leaves;  not  quite  a  foliage  plant,  perhaps,  but 
practically  that.  It  was  for  this  our  ancestors  learned 
to  prize  it.  It  is  significant  that  in  German  cabbage  is 
called  kraut;  weeds  are  called  unkraut;  i.  e.,  not  kraut, 
indicating  that  for  a  time,  at  least,  cabbage  formed  the 
only  plant  in  Germany  whose  leaves  might  be  used  as  an 
article  of  food.  But  in  Brittany  the  farmers  take  the 
same  plant  and  by  continued  plucking  off  of  the  leaves 
rear  at  length  a  lofty  stem,  ten  to  fourteen  feet  in  height, 
which  when  dry  may  be  used  as  a  pole,  a  rafter,  or  for 
other  constructional  purpose.  In  Belgium  the  terminal 
bud  is  encouraged  to  unfold,  by  plucking  the  lower  leaves 
until  a  form  has  been  obtained  which  develops  instead 
of  a  single  terminal  head  a  multitude  of  minor  heads,  one 
in  the  axil  of  each  leaf  in  fact,  and  we  have  Brussels 
sprouts.  Nor  is  this  all.  Certain  types  of  the  plant 
have  been  taught  to  bloom  in  an  abnormal  way.  Men 
found  the  flowerstalks  and  flowers  a  pleasant  succulent 
and  lo,  cauliflower  is  the  result,  formed  from  the  same 
i  From  caput,  head. 


The  Plant's  Response 


original  stock.  Nay,  farther ;  a  variety  with  abnormally 
developed  stem  becomes  kohl-rabi,  and  if  the  thickening 
be  low  down  and  form  a  subterranean  stem  or  bulbous 
root  we  have  a  form  of  turnip. 

The  fact  is,  the  whole  vegetable  garden  is  a  marvelous 
response  to  man's  solicitation  in  the  world  of  herbaceous 
plants.  Tomatoes  have  come  up  into  their  present  al- 
most universal  popularity  within  the  memory  of  men 
still  living,  and  there  are  other  plants  whose  response  to 
human  effort  has  been  scarcely  less  astonishing.  The 
navel  orange  is  a  curious  illustration  of  the  abandonment 
with  which  plants  yield  themselves  to  man's  control. 
Here  is  a  fruit  which  has  absolutely  given  up  its  power 
of  producing  seed,  its  whole  claim  on  the  future,  its 
perpetuity,  at  the  bidding  of  the  artful  gardener.  Bot- 
anists have  long  been  familiar  with  what  they  denomin- 
ate proliferation,  the  repetition  of  a  flower  beyond  itself, 
of  a  flower  which  should  otherwise  terminate  the  stem, 
as  the  rose.  Now  the  navel  orange  is,  it  seems,  a  case  of 
proliferation;  the  first  orange  blossom  did  not  check  the 
twig,  but  the  carpels  of  the  first-formed  flower  carry  up 
the  axis  to  form  a  second  smaller  blossom  and  this  makes 
in  turn,  in  the  top  of  the  large  perfected  fruit,  the  second 
little  orange  whereat  the  world  has  wondered!  All  be- 
cause luxurious  man  dislikes  a  fruit  with  seeds!  The 
navel  orange  has  entrusted  its  whole  destiny  to  man :  he 
may  carry  it  along  by  budding ;  the  tree  makes  no  effort 
more  to  perpetuate  itself.  It  has  foregone  the  power  of 
forming  seeds. 

But  man's  selective  agency  goes  farther  still;  it  reach- 
es even  the  world  of  microscopic  plants,  and  has  nurtured 


184  On  the  Campus 

and  perpetuated  forms  which  until  recently  the  human 
eye  had  never  seen !  Here  is  yeast,  for  instance,  a  tiny 
plant  that  has  the  wondrous  power  of  converting  sugar 
into  alcohol ;  men  have  been  using  this  microscopic  plant 
through  thousands  of  years,  using  it  and  excluding  other 
similar  forms  and  yet  they  never  saw  nor  even  suspected 
the  organism  they  handled.  It  is  said  that  the  ancient 
dynasties  of  Egypt  understood  the  art  of  brewing.  And 
so  from  generation  to  generation  we  have  handed  down 
our  yeast ;  even  to  this  day  from  hand  to  hand. 

But  there  are  stranger  illustrations  still.  In  the  old 
European  world  in  days  gone  by,  as  we  know,  there  were 
scores  of  little  principalities  and  states.  Now  nearly 
every  little  community,  every  Lilliputian  commonwealth 
or  kingdom  had  its  own  particular  kind  of  cheese.  There 
is  Chilton  cheese,  and  Cheddar  cheese,  and  Cheshire 
cheese,  in  England;  Edam  cheese,  Limburger  cheese, 
Schweitzer  cheese,  Parmesan  cheese,  Eocquefort  cheese, 
Neuchatel  cheese,  Guyere  cheese,  Bris  cheese,  and  so  on, 
and  so  on.  Now  all  these  differ  decidedly  one  from  the 
other,  not  in  composition  merely  but  especially  in  flavor ; 
and  we  have  lately  learned  that  the  particular  flavor  in 
every  case  is  due  to  the  particular  microscopic  plant  that 
in  the  ripening  of  the  product  bears  the  upper  hand. 
One  tiny  microbe  presides  over  the  soft  delicacy  of 
Neuchatel ;  another  is  dominant  when  the  die  is  cast  that 
summons  forth  the  rich  sweetness  of  the  Dunlap  or  the 
Chilton;  still  another  warms  the  Edam  globe  with  its 
peculiar  pungency,  while  the  microscopic  demons  that 
bring  to  the  famous  Limburger  its  bouquet,  far-reaching 
and  far-famed,  are,  we  may  be  certain,  different  still! 


The  Plant's  Response 


1 85 


That  is,  the  bacteria  and  moulds  of  lactic  fermentation 
have  been  cared  for  and  watched  by  man  and  have  re- 
sponded to  his  fancy,  lending  him  constantly  the  aroma 
he  prefers.  In  this  invisible  microscopic  garden  unen- 
lightened man  has  toiled  for  ages,  moving  as  a  gardener 
might  move  at  night,  among  his  plants,  guided  only  by 
the  sense  of  taste  and  smell.  In  fact,  the  more  we 
study  our  inheritance  from  the  dim  and  irrecoverable 
past,  the  higher  rises  our  respect  for  those  our  far-away 
unknown  progenitors.  In  a  most  noble  sense  we  are  all 
of  us  sons  and  daughters  of  Cincinnatus;  nay  of  Adam, 
if  you  will;  the  man  who  was  set  in  the  earth  as  in  a 
garden  to  keep  it  and  to  dress  it.  For  all  the  civilization 
of  the  past  two  thousand  years,  it  does  not  appear  that 
we  have  discovered  a  single  species,  which  our  modern 
art  has  led  to  utility,  to  rival  the  rice  and  the  wheat  and 
the  sweet-potato,  and  soy,  and  millet,  and  peaches,  and 
cherries,  and  grapes  and  apples;  all  of  which  stood  in 
human  gardens  from  thirty  to  fifty  centuries  ago;  all, 
responses  to  a  cultivation  so  old  that  the  primitive  type 
must  remain  forever  lost  in  prehistoric  night.  Such  is 
the  antiquity  of  horticulture  and  the  lineage  of  Bur- 
bank,  and  his  kind.1 

But  it  is  written  that  man  shall  not  live  by  bread 
alone.  Fortunately  for  us,  men  have  found  during  all 

i  Burbank  accomplishes  his  results  by  crossing  and  selection. 
Crossing  is  certainly  common  in  the  natural  world.  In  high  an- 
tiquity we  may  suppose  men  were  selectors  only,  taking  advantage 
of  such  sports,  mutations  as  doubtless  constantly  arose  among  the 
plants  they  sought.  But  later  on,  but  before  the  Christian  era,  the 
more  experienced  people,  now  horticulturists,  used  precisely  the 
same  methods  and  upon  the  same  plants  which  now  lend  fame  to 


1 86  On  the  Campus 

these  years  delight  in  plants  for  other  reason  than  for 
the  mere  fact  of  food  supply. 

There  is  doubtless  no  element  in  human  environment 
which  brings  to  men  generally  so  much  delight  as  color. 
The  savage  races  delight  in  it,  as  we  all  know,  and  with 
a  piece  of  red  calico  you  may  buy  in  Africa  the  most 
precious  possessions  of  a  whole  tribe.  Nor  less  do  civil- 
ized men  enjoy  the  same  sensation.  How  flat  are  all 
our  photographic  effects  and  how  we  long  for  some 
color-photographic  process  which  shall  enable  us  to  cap- 
ture the  brilliant  tints  of  the  natural  world.  Nature 
gave  us  to  behold  blue  skies,  emerald  seas,  the  rainbow's 
lovely  form,  the  gilding  that  makes  rich  the  evening  sky, 
the  splendor,  the  indescribable  splendor  that  glorifies  the 

Burbank  and  California,  and  with  similar  results,  so  far  as  the 
plants  are  concerned. 

"Moreover,  there  are  a  kind  of  Abricots  come  from  a  forraine 
nation,  and  they  be  called  thereupon  Armeniaca,  which  alone  for 
their  smell  also,  are  commendable.  But  there  is  a  peculiar  braverie 
and  a  shameless,  which  those  Plums  have  by  themselves  that  are 
grafted  in  Nut-tree  stocks;  they  retaine  the  face  and  forme  still 
of  the  mother  grafte,  but  they  get  the  tast  of  the  stocke  wherein 
they  are  set,  as  it  were  by  way  of  adoption:  of  them  both  they 
carrie  the  name,  and  are  called  Nut-plums. 

"It  is  not  long  since,  that  in  the  realme  of  Granado  and  Anda- 
lusia, they  began  to  grafte  plums  upon  apple-tree  stocks,  and 
those  brought  forth  Plums  named  Apple-plums:  as  also  others 
called  Almond-plums,  grafted  upon  Almond  stocks;  these  have 
within  their  stone  a  kernell  like  an  Almond:  and  verily  there  is 
not  a  fruit  againe  wherein  is  seene  a  wittier  devise  to  conjoyne 
and  represent  in  one  and  the  same  subject,  two  divers  sorts." 
From  Chapter  XIII.,  The  fifteenth  Booke  of  Plinies  Naturall 
Historic,  translated  by  Philemon  Holland,  1601,  p.  437.  Pliny 
died  A.  D.  79! 


The  Plant's  Response  187 

gates  of  the  morning,  when  the  sun  rises  in  his  strength ; 
we  have  all  this  apart  from  life  and  its  ways.  Now  so 
far  as  terrestrial  happiness  is  concerned,  man's  aesthetic 
sense  seems  to  me  almost  his  best  endowment.  But  the 
aesthetic  appreciation  of  color  seems,  however,  secondary ; 
the  human  eye  has  long  been  habituated  to  discover 
beauty  in  color  before  it  will  once  consent  to  dwell  with 
satisfaction  upon  the  glory  of  the  sinking  sun.  The  con- 
fectioners tell  us  that  children  prefer  candy  with  red 
stripes ;  notice,  no  man  ever  thought  of  decorating  candy 
with  green  stripes ;  not  for  children.  And  so  it  happens 
that  millions  of  people  savage  and  civilized  alike,  see 
beauty  in  flowers  and  fruit,  and  butterflies  and  birds  in 
brilliant  colors  all  arrayed,  who  have  never  noticed  a 
sunset  or  possibly  even  thought  the  rainbow  worth  look- 
ing at  at  all. 

Our  appreciation  of  beautiful  things  in  this  world 
may  have  been  extremely  utilitarian  in  the  outset.  The 
birds  had  already  summoned  forth  the  purple  of  the 
grape,  the  gold  of  the  orange,  the  scarlet  of  the  cherry, 
before  ever  man  had  a  thought  of  these  things,  before  he 
ever  existed  at  all;  and  man's  first  interest  in  these 
things  as  objects  of  color  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  brilliant 
tints  proclaimed  his  food.  Hence  it  is  that  the  baby 
likes  red  candy,  while  nobody  has  thought  of  making 
such  things  green  —  green  never  suggested  food  to  any- 
body —  save  perchance  to  Nebuchadnezzar  and  such  lov- 
ers of  salad  —  but  that  was  in  the  years  of  his  misfortune. 
Nevertheless,  we  all  know  that  we  have  long  since  passed 
that  stage  of  human  culture  where  beauty  of  form  or  color 
is  associated  in  the  mind,  at  least  consciously,  with  the 


1 88  On  the  Campus 

idea  of  advantage  to  be  gained.  Sometimes,  however,  you 
may  yet  hear  a  person  exclaim,  * '  That  looks  good  enough 
to  eat ! ' '  But  children  —  mirabile  dictu !  —  will  still  eat 
colored  paints,  and  every  sort  of  wild  fruit  that  shines. 

The  sense  of  smell  represents  perhaps  a  much  more 
primitive  service.  A  man  may  see  a  great  many  oranges 
and  not  be  moved  to  eat  the  fruit  at  all ;  but  let  him  once 
smell  it,  and  the  case  is  different;  even  though,  in  all 
experience,  the  orange  smells  a  great  deal  better  than  it 
tastes. 

But,  as  has  been  said,  as  adults  we  are  generally  far 
past  the  mere  utilitarian  consideration  of  fruits.  "We 
may  look  upon  an  orange-tree  in  green  and  gold  and  re- 
joice in  the  magnificence  of  the  spectacle,  —  even  delight 
to  see  it  spread  in  splendor  over  a  thousand  acres,  with 
never  a  thought  of  hunger.  And  it  is  just  at  this  point 
that  the  plant  once  more  becomes  our  servant  and  stands 
ready  to  respond  abundantly  to  these  our  late-acquired 
and  high  perceptions,  the  longings  and  aspirations  of  the 
sentient  soul.  And  so  we  come  to  the  admiration  of 
fruit  and  flowers  which  we  may  not  eat  at  all;  we  may 
even  enjoy  their  odors  and  never  think  of  food;  breathe 
their  fragrance  with  not  a  thought  of  banquets,  until  we 
come  to  the  love  of  all  these  things  in  their  purity, 
singly  and  in  mass,  and  love  them  at  length  for  their 
own  sakes,  and  seek  to  have  them  near  us ;  to  place  our- 
selves often  under  their  spell  and  presence;  to  find  in 
them  a  language  suitable  to  our  thought;  to  read  into 
them  meanings  that  in  nature  they  never  knew ;  to  bind 
roses  on  the  brow  of  beauty,  orange-blossoms  into 'the 
bridal  wreath ;  and  lilies  even  on  the  caskets  of  the  dead, 


The  Plant's  Response  189 

to  speak  to  us  of  the  freshness  of  some  new,  eternal  morn- 
ing. 

It  is  when  plants  begin  thus  their  highest  and  purest 
ministry  that  their  response  also  becomes  more  and  more 
refined,  more  and  more  part  of  the  material  of  art.  We 
have  touched  the  wild  rose  in  its  simple  beauty,  with 
fine  rose-red  petals  and  a  yellow  disk  of  stamens,  and  it 
blushes  in  all  the  delicacy  of  the  prairie  queen,  or  masses 
its  fire  in  the  Jacqueminot  or  American  Beauty,  or  lends 
itself  to  the  production  of  that  most  subtle  of  delicate 
perfumes,  the  odor  and  sweetness  of  the  tea-roses  in  all 
their  manifold  forms,  or  fairly  glows  in  the  blaze  of  the 
crimson  velvet,  or  melts  in  the  gold  of  the  yellow  Mare- 
chal  Neill.  There  are  more  than  four  thousand  varieties 
of  roses. 

The  compositae  with  fruitful  center  and  rays  that  affect 
yellow,  white  or  blue  or  red,  we  cultivate  and  behold! 
the  daisy  becomes  a  ball  of  orange  —  or  white,  or  lilac, 
or  violet,  or  all  combined,  and  chrysanthemums  simply 
fill  the  gardens  of  the  world  and  make  our  social  func- 
tions a  spectacle  of  splendor.  Pansies  are  listed  in  the 
thousands,  and  so  are  carnations,  and  dahlias  and 
fuchsias,  and  all  the  rest.  Nor  is  this  all:  we  blend 
these  things  in  park  and  garden  to  produce  effects  that 
make  of  our  effort  a  picture,  a  blending  of  harmonious 
form  and  color,  pleasing  as  some  majestic  masterpiece, 
whose  conception  and  execution  mark  the  summit  of 
human  creative  skill.  For  this  purpose  not  flowers  alone 
respond  but  trees  and  shrubs  in  all  their  manifold  wealth 
of  form  and  habit,  and  especially  in  their  docility,  in  the 
readiness  with  which,  then  properly  treated,  they  lend 
themselves  to  our  highest  decorative  purpose. 


190  On  the  Campus 

Thus  it  appears  that  the  higher  response  of  the  vegeta- 
ble world  comes  only  when  man  reaches  the  higher  possi- 
bilities of  his  nature.  So  long  as  man  demands  food 
only,  the  plant  furnishes  forth  bread ;  when  man  demands 
shelter,  the  plant  is  rich  in  shade ;  and  now  at  last  when 
the  human  spirit  craves  for  beauty  —  the  plant  blazes 
in  color  and  proclaims  in  every  feature  the  lines  of  har- 
mony and  grace.  It  is  a  fact  not  wholly  insignificant 
that  the  earliest  page  of  human  record  puts  man  in  a 
garden,  —  not  in  a  tent,  much  less  in  ceiled  house  or 
palace,  but  in  a  garden,  where  vegetation  should  respond 
to  every  need.  In  1625  Lord  Verulam  says  in  one  of 
his  famous  essays: 

"God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden  and  indeed  it 
is  the  purest  of  human  pleasures;  it  is  the  greatest  re- 
freshment to  the  spirit  of  man,  without  which  buildings 
and  palaces  are  but  gross  handyworks ;  and  a  man  shall 
ever  see  that  when  the  ages  grow  to  civility  and  elegancy 
men  come  to  build  stately  sooner  than  to  garden  finely 
as  if  gardening  were  the  greater  perfection. ' ' 

To  "build  stately"  is  only  the  second  stage  then  in 
human  culture  as  concerns  the  use  of  the  habitable  world. 
First,  food,  then  shelter,  then  beauty.  First  the  wild 
delicious  beauty  of  the  Iowa  wilderness ;  then  the  simple 
homes  of  wood  set  down  amid  the  ranking  corn  or 
grouped  in  villages  beside  the  streams;  then  the  paved 
streets,  the  palaces  in  brick  and  stone :  now  the  return  to 
Nature.  Wealth  profiteth  us  not ;  the  roar  of  commerce 
ceases  to  be  music  to  our  vexed  and  wearied  ears.  We 
are  homesick  children,  all  of  us ;  we  seek  paradise.  Now 
paradise  means  park.  When  to  enlightened  humanity 


The  Plant's  Response  191 

has  come,  in  the  sating  of  our  aesthetic  nature,  a  success; 
triumphant  as  is  ours  in  the  lower  planes  of  human  living, 
who  shall  then  describe  the  beauty  of  this  world !  When 
all  men  seek  beauty  as  the  highest  terrestrial  ideal ;  when  a 
man's  wealth  is  counted  not  in  dollars  but  in  the  amount 
of  ideal  earth-culture  that  his  hand  controls,  who  shall 
then  declare  the  splendor  of  this  blooming  fruitful 
planet ! 

What  would  the  earth  be  if  conformable  only  to  the 
wisdom  of  our  economies,  to  the  law  of  wisest  practical 
use;  what  then  shall  it  be  when  to  this  perfection  is 
superadded  a  condition  responsive  to  our  love  of  sym- 
metry and  beauty?  Remember  Nature  knows  beauty 
only  —  the  beautiful :  —  the  unbeautif ul  she  forever  cov- 
ers and  buries  out  of  sight.  Only  untaught  man  inter- 
feres with  her  processes  of  harmony  and  purity  and  life ; 
for  the  law  of  Nature  is  the  law  of  eternal  things,  is  the 
law  of  God.  We  shall  never  outrun  her.  Our  parks, 
our  gardens,  our  flowers,  our  fruits,  our  trees,  shall 
never  fail,  nor  shall  our  highest  skill  ever  exhaust  their 
patient,  silent,  activity  and  progress,  their  confident  re- 
sponse. 

Here  now  I  might  well  end  my  story  were  it  not  that 
I  am  sure  that  even  here  there  rises  yet  another  argu- 
ment in  the  minds  of  thoughtful  people.  There  is  yet  one 
more  response  made  by  the  green  leafy  world  to  the  grop- 
ing spirit  of  the  sons  of  men,  more  delicate,  more  subtle 
yet,  by  far,  by  far.  In  all  that  has  been  spoken  so  far 
man  himself  is  the  aggressor;  he  suggests  the  response 
and  the  answer  is  as  he  desires.  But  the  world  was  full 
of  answers  ere  man  dreamed  at  all,  and  to  every  nature- 


192  On  the  Campus 

lover  there  are  a  thousand  voices  that  come  unbidden, 
half  mystic  if  you  will,  but  real  withal  in  their  effect 
upon  the  sentient  soul,  voices  that  touch  the  wander- 
er's every  mood,  that  kindle  anew  his  quiet  joy  in  living, 
or  by  their  gentler  ministry  soothe  his  perturbed  spirit. 
The  man  who  treads  the  great  aisles  of  the  towering  for- 
ests on  our  western  slopes  passes  under  the  spell  of  their 
mighty  past  and  revels  triumphant  in  the  privilege  of 
beholding.  Giants  a  thousand  years  old  rising  above  the 
prostrate  trunks  of  other  giants  through  hundreds  of 
generations  —  all  for  him,  and  he  possesses  all  their 
years  and  listens  to  the  music  brought  pure  and  unal- 
loyed from  all  the  past.  Or  he  stands  upon  the  limitless 
meadow  of  the  uninhabited  grassy  plain,  and  sees  in  the 
sunshine  the  wind-tossed  waves  chasing  each  other  in 
light  and  shadow  to  the  far  horizon,  and  the  wealth  of 
future  life  is  his,  for  shall  not  that  flood  sweep  on  and 
on,  as  he  beholds  it  now,  so  long  as  the  sun  or  the  moon 
endures.  Or  sleepless,  does  he  walk  the  desert  on  a  star- 
lit night  amid  sage  brush,  mesquit,  covillea  with  its 
golden  bloom,  —  every  plant  declares  life 's  triumph  and 
lifts  him  over  every  hardship  and  all  the  plagues  and 
difficulties  that  anon  did  pester  him  and  seemed  so  in- 
surmountable. Or  in  some  quiet  grove  at  home  do  the 
whisperings  of  the  leaves  touch  him  with  a  sense  of  mel- 
ody or  of  mystery  ?  he  listens  spell-bound,  charmed  by  the 
voice  oracular  that  through  countless  generations  spoke 
to  his  fathers  the  voice  of  God.  His  musings  are  un- 
conscious memories.  Here  is  the  field  for  the  poets,  and 
no  greatest  man  among  them  has  failed  to  note  it.  Mil- 
ton in  Lycidas,  Schiller  in  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  Shake- 


The  Plant's  Response  193 

speare  in  A  Winter's  Tale  and  in  his  glorious  sonnets, 
Wordsworth  and  Tennyson  throughout,  —  all  have  dis- 
covered and  declared  this  indefinable  response  of  the 
world  of  leaf  and  bloom  to  the  unuttered  moods  and  pas- 
sions of  the  human  soul.  Emerson,  perhaps,  in  a  line  or 
two  puts  the  case  more  simply,  more  boldly  than  any, 
saturated  as  he  is  with  the  poetry  of  the  forest  and  of 
the  book  of  books. 

1 '  When  I  'm  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
And  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  wit  and  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools  and  the  learned  clan, 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  a  man  with  God  in  a  bush  may  meet?" 

But  all  this  lies  outside  the  bounds  of  present  science. 
Is  it  summer  now?  Once  more  the  web  of  life  is  weav- 
ing: the  robin  once  again  sits  perched  upon  his  cherry 
tree;  men  and  women  go  forth,  go  forth  to  labor,  for 
robin  as  for  man  the  shuttle  flies  unseen.  Or  is  it 
autumn  now  ?  There  is  a  haze  above  the  river ;  a  thinner 
sunlight  smiles  on  wooded  aisles,  the  poets  and  the  chil- 
dren on  the  earth  go  once  more  up  and  down,  gathering 
the  tinted  leaves,  with  meanings  and  responses  that  they 
at  least  can  understand! 


POINT   LOBOS 

The  Plant*  s  Response  to  Forces  Cosmic  in  Their  Origin 

Point  Lobos  is  a  small  rocky  headland,  from  the  curv- 
ing coast  of  California  thrust  out  into  the  Pacific  seas. 
Before  it  rise  a  score  or  more  of  petty  islands,  mostly 
mere  rocks,  covered  at  high  tide,  at  low  tide  joined  by 
ragged  stony  chains,  mere  wrecks,  witnesses  of  ocean's 
all-devastating  strength. 

The  parallel  of  north  latitude  35°  31'  meets  the  shore- 
line at  the  headland 's  western  front,  from  San  Francisco 
south,  perhaps  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  miles.  To 
north  of  us  is  the  Bay  of  Monterey  for  which  our  head- 
land forms  part  of  the  southern  enclosing  wall,  although 
Carmelo  Bay  indents  the  shore  between.  Both  bays  are 
well  shut  in  by  ridges  of  rock ;  in  fact,  we  have  here  two 
of  the  lesser  folds  of  the  Coast  Range  of  California 
mountains  coming  down  to  meet  the  sea;  the  one,  the 
more  eastern,  Sierra  de  Salinas,  gives  us  Point  Pinos 
and  Point  Cypress  farther  north;  the  other,  Sierra  de 
Santa  Lucia,  terminates  in  the  headland  which  affords 
the  basis  of  our  present  study.  East  of  Salinas  at  no 
considerable  distance  stretches  the  most  conspicuous  and 
the  highest  of  these  curious  parallel  folds,  the  Sierra  del 
Monte  Diabolo,  to  which  reference  will  be  made  farther 
on.  Between  the  two  ranges  first  named,  Salinas  and 


Point  Lobos  195 


Lucia,  flows  the  little  river  El  Carmelo,  so  named  by 
the  Spanish  priests,  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
Here  was  one  of  their  mission  churches,  its  ruins  may 
still  be  seen,  and  the  traveler,  if  the  season  favor,  may 
yet  pluck  pears  from  trees  of  priestly  planting  just 
across  the  river.  This  is  historic  ground.  El  Carmelo 
is  however  a  small  short  stream  fed  by  springs  and 
seeps,  and  Carmelo  Bay  is  only  the  river's  mouth,  all 
choked  and  barred  by  shifting  sands. 

Point  Lobos,  then  we  say,  is  an  out-thrust,  an  out- 
thrust  of  a  mountain,  but  that  must  not  signify  too  much. 
In  this  locality  the  mountains  are  nowhere  very  high, 
three  or  four  thousand  feet  at  most,  here  by  the  shore 
not  more  than  half  so  high,  diminishing  as  they  ap- 
proach the  ocean  so  that  Point  Lobos  is  simply  a  worn 
and  battered  spur,  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  high  where 
the  wall  goes  sheer  down  to  meet  the  breakers,  perhaps 
two  hundred  feet  high  at  the  highest  point,  a  hundred 
rods  or  more  back  from  the  cliff  edge. 

Now  the  promontory  is  crowned  with  trees,  and  the 
whole  shore  northward  is  wooded  for  several  miles.  East 
and  south  are  the  desert ;  westward  is  the  sea,  but  on  the 
westward  rocks  are  acres  of  kelp,  while  hiding  in  every 
rocky  niche  and  cranny  a  most  beautiful  live-forever 
finds  lodging  permanent,  and  decks  the  whole  rocky  face 
of  these  beetling  cliffs  with  perennial  bloom.  At  the 
margin  of  the  cliff  the  trees  are  all  distorted,  gnarled, 
and  twisted  by  perpetual  struggle  with  the  ocean  wind. 
Many  of  the  old  warriors  in  this  battle  are  already  dead, 
but  still  stand  as  if  immortal,  their  time-defying  trunks 
and  naked  arms  bleached  white  as  the  snows  of  winter. 


196  On  the  Campus 

A  lovely  lace-like  lichen  hangs  on  all  the  trees  both  dead 
and  living  in  filmy  festoons  tossing,  while  here  and  there, 
far  within  the  shade,  patches  of  another  curious  lichen- 
aceous  growth  paint  trunks  and  branches  brown  and 
gold. 

Around  Point  Lobos,  as  the  rule  for  points  down  by  the 
sea,  especially  along  the  even  coast  of  California,  the 
winds  play  their  incessant  music.  Sometimes  they  come 
roaring  as  if  they  had  crossed  the  whole  vast  ocean  in 
their  onset  simply  to  smite  this  one  opposing  rock;  anon 
they  simply  sigh  with  sullen  sough,  or  sing  a  requiem 
sad  through  leafless  trees,  that  once,  when  living, 
answered  with  a  shriller  music.  The  sea,  too,  here  has 
its  moods.  Sometimes  the  sea  is  glad;  the  sunshine 
glorifies  its  endless  hues;  its  crystal  waters  lap  the  base 
of  granite  walls  or  stream  through  purling  channels,  or 
run  in  shallow  waves  along  the  snowy  sands  to  chase  the 
naked  feet  of  happy  children.  Again  the  sea  is  sad; 
clouds  hang  low  above  its  darkened  waters,  the  sullen 
waves  rise  and  sink  amid  the  islands  or  now  with  falling 
tide  make  far  retreat,  disclosing  all  the  slimy  kelp  and 
naked  rocks  that  form  the  shingle  of  the  world.  Then 
the  tide  comes  back  and  with  it  often  comes  the  storm 
and  the  sea  rages  and  roars ;  every  wave  gathers  to  the 
onset,  sweeping  the  islands  as  if  to  eternal  oblivion, 
climbs  to  the  very  summit  of  the  granite  cliff,  and  with 
its  watery  tongue  licks  down  the  overhanging  crest,  the 
turf,  the  flowers.  Then  the  sun  comes  back  with  peace ; 
the  landscape  reappears,  the  sluggish  seals  are  lolling  on 
the  rounded  rocks,  and  myriad  sea-fowl  whirl  about  the 
islands'  undiminished  heads.  To  landward  loom  the 


Point  Lobos  197 


shades  of  dark-massed  trees,  and  even  the  rocky  walls 
are  yet  bedecked  with  storm-enduring  flowers.  Some- 
times the  densest  kind  of  fog  comes  on  as  if  heaven's 
whitest,  softest,  purest  clouds  came  down  to  gently  close 
the  sense  of  sight  and  bid  us  use  our  ears.  As  in  the 
song  of  the  ancient  mariner,  "we  cannot  choose  but 
hear. ' '  We  hear  the  barking  of  the  seals,  the  scream  of 
the  sea-birds,  jostling  each  other  on  that  island's  top; 
the  murmur  of  the  softened  waves  as  now  they  rush  in 
streams  through  hidden  caverns  of  the  rock  beneath  us, 
nor  less  the  dripping  of  the  upper  waters  falling  in 
gentle  raindrops  from  the  swaying  lichens  over  and 
about  our  heads  or  even  trickling  in  tiny  rivulets  adown 
the  trees.  Point  Lobos  is  a  charming  place,  the  sea,  the 
mountains,  and  the  woods;  what  more  can  you  seek? 
Here  is  the  most  lovely  bit  of  ocean  scenery  that  some 
Americans  have  ever  known,  or,  at  least,  have  had  op- 
portunity to  admire. 

But  these  are  usual  charms:  these  possibly  may  be 
found  elsewhere.  In  the  turmoil  of  this  mundane  life 
few  of  us  have  wide  experience.  Each  knows  his  own, 
unknown  to  others,  and  for  each  his  own  is  good.  But 
Lobos  has  some  special  and  for  the  student  some  peculiar 
graces.  Here  is  geology.  The  foundations  of  the  earth 
are  uncovered;  the  very  core  of  the  mountains  is  laid 
bare.  Upon  these  ancient  bases  primeval  all  sorts  of 
rocks  have  been  laid  down.  Professor  Lawson  of  the 
University  of  California,  who  has  studied  the  geology  of 
the  region  for  us,  calls  peculiar  even  the  granite  here 
exposed;  he  also  names  it  pre-cretaceous,  which  means 


198  On  the  Campus 

nothing  if  not  that  the  earliest  deposits  on  it  indicate 
the  shore-line  or  bottom  of  the  cretaceous  seas.  However 
this  may  be,  evidence  of  unusual  geologic  change  is 
everywhere  within  the  shortest  distance.  Eocene,  mio- 
cene,  in  great  thickness  and  many  distinct  strata  were 
spread  abroad,  all  before  ever  these  mountains  were 
formed  at  all.  Then  comes  the  folding,  the  mountain- 
making,  and  the  subsequent  erosion  and  then  the  plio- 
cene laid  against  the  face  of  all  these  hills,  probably  to 
the  height  of  eight  hundred  feet.  On  the  southern  slope 
of  the  Point,  a  most  striking  formation,  probably  eocene, 
lies  immediately  on  the  granite ;  there  it  is,  anybody  can 
see  it;  a  conglomerate,  an  ancient  sea-bottom,  fossilized, 
full  of  boulders  worn,  and  pebbles  and  sand  all  cemented 
together,  capping  the  granite.  You  have  seen  the  same 
thing  on  the  top  of  the  Alps,  on  the  Eigi,  for  instance  ; 
but  wherever  seen  the  situation  is  one  of  the  most  mar- 
velous and  tells  of  the  age  of  this  world  and  of  its 
changes  as  can  nothing  else.  This  old  sea-bottom  is 
crowned  now  with  flowers  and  trees  but  all  returning 
rapidly,  lapsing  into  the  maw  of  that  restless,  insatiate 
sea.  There  it  goes,  even  while  you  watch!  That  big 
wave  which  you  but  just  escaped  has  broken  off  the  very 
coast  on  which  you  stood  and  is  even  now  rolling  it  back 
in  its  retreat  far  down  the  shingly  bottom.  Those  who 
follow  us  a  hundred  years  from  now  will  see  another 
shore-line.  Ours  will  have  become  part  and  parcel  of  the 
ocean  floor.  And  yet,  they  say,  the  coast  is  rising.  Every 
once  in  a  while  Dame  Nature  shifts  a  little  these  outer 
fringes  of  her  mantle  and  all  California  goes  trembling 


Point  Lobos 


199 


with  an  earthquake.1  Eight  hundred  feet  the  coast  has 
risen  here  since  these  newest  gifts  of  ocean  were  piled 
along  the  shore,  only  to  be  again  resumed  piecemeal  as 
we  have  seen.  Meantime  the  steady  waters  of  erosion, 
the  rains  and  the  snows  —  snows,  too,  as  we  shall  see  — 
have  cut  out  the  valley  of  the  Carmel  River;  not  so  long 
ago,  if  one  may  judge  by  those  steep  slopes  and  high- 
built  terraces  that  here  hem  the  river  in. 

But  all  that  has  been  described  is  tertiary;  there  still 
remains  the  time  of  this  erosion,  the  quaternary  between 
these  old  deposits  and  the  present.  The  famous  ice- 
sheets  of  which  to-day  we  hear  so  much,  affected  Califor- 
nia too.  The  entire  Sierra  range  far  south  as  latitude 
36°  32',  the  line  of  Mount  Whitney,  was  one  vast  mer 
de  glace.  Mount  Whitney  is  scarred  on  every  side  with 
the  traces  of  vanished  glaciers,  glaciers  that  once  filled  up 
the  valleys  of  Kern's  and  Owen's  rivers  and  rested  away 
out  in  the  basin  of  what  is  now  Tulare  Lake  with  its  sur- 
rounding quags  and  swamps.  While  all  this  was  going 
on  we  may  be  sure  that  our  ranges  nearer  the  sea  were 
not  neglected.  They  too  must  have  been  crowned  with 
snow,  which  while  possibly  not  sufficient  to  form  glaciers 
did  nevertheless  furnish  constant  and  voluminous  streams 
that  cut  out  the  channels  of  these  sea-side  rivers.  It 
seems  incredible  that  the  sun-baked  fields  of  California 
were  once  the  scene  of  unceasing  winter,  but  all  evidence 
seems  to  prove  just  that  very  thing.  No  glaciers  ever 
touched  Point  Lobos,  but  perennial  snow  no  doubt  cov- 

i  This  was  written  before  the  now  famous  disturbance  of  April, 
1906. 


200  On  the  Campus 

ered  all  the  ranges  immediately  to  the  east  the  whole 
series  of  the  mountains  of  Diabolo. 

There  is  no  time  to-night  to  tell  of  the  zoology  of  this 
peculiar  region.  Suffice  to  say  that  this,  too,  would,  if 
properly  presented,  form  a  most  interesting  chapter. 
These  rocks  fairly  swarm  with  a  multitude  of  animal 
forms,  some  of  the  most  beautiful  things  on  which  man 
ever  gazed  in  all  this  beautiful  world.  Sea-urchins  in 
royal  purple  dressed;  sea-anemones  finer  and  fairer  if 
possible,  than  the  flowers  that  deck  the  overhanging 
land;  scuttling  crabs  of  every  possible  hue:  haliotis  so 
abundant  that  the  industrious  Japanese  has  here  set  up 
an  abalone  fishing  station  and  sends  off  continually  tons 
of  these  beautiful  shells  to  every  part  of  the  world.  The 
fauna  of  the  place  deserves  the  enthusiasm  of  the  zoolo- 
gist. 

But  now,  with  all  this  varied  background,  let  us 
turn  our  attention  to  the  world  of  plants,  especially  to  the 
trees:  these  offer  the  botanist's  problem  of  the  locality, 
and  it  is  their  response  to  these  cosmic  changes,  these 
shiftings  to  and  fro  of  shore  and  mountain,  that  make 
Point  Lobos  famous.  The  flora  of  Point  Lobos  is  not  only 
peculiar  in  California,  the  land  of  peculiar  things  and  pe- 
culiar people  (sotto  voce),  but  it  is  peculiar  on  the  planet, 
unrivalled  in  the  world.  Here  is  a  curious  mixture;  on 
the  one  hand  we  have  the  flora  of  the  desert,  Artemisia, 
Chenopodium,  Eriogonum,  and  all  those  semi-shrubby 
things  that  dot  the  desert  all  the  way  across  the  continent. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  have  a  mountain  flora  and  this 
unique ;  we  have  pine  and  live-oak  and  cypress  for  trees, 
with  typical  mountain  ferns,  among  which  the  famous 


Point  Lobos  201 


gold  and  silver  ferns  are  not  without  their  representatives. 
The  oak  is  Quercus  chrysolepis,  a  species  rather  common 
in  central  California,  but  nowhere  else  in  the  world. 
The  pine  is  Pinus  radiata,  the  Monterey  pine,  about  the 
Bay  of  Monterey,  nowhere  else  in  the  world.  The  cy- 
press—  there  are  two  of  them;  one  is  Cupressiis  goven- 
iana,  a  small  shrub-like  tree  on  sun-burnt  slopes,  found 
here  in  a  single  colony  and  also  in  similar  position  at 
Cape  Mendocino ;  the  other,  here  discussed,  is  Cupressus, 
macrocarpa,  the  Monterey  cypress,  occupying  an  area 
two  or  three  miles  long  from  Cypress  Point  to  Point  Lo- 
bos, and  not  exceeding  two  hundred  yards  in  width,  and 
nowhere  else  in  all  the  world!  Even  the  little  live- 
forever  is  unique,  limited  to  this  immediate  coast-line. 
About  these  three  plants  our  present  argument  may  turn. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  a  situation  like  this  possesses 
peculiar  interest;  it  is  an  interrogation  point.  It  calls 
loudly  for  explanation.  Of  course,  not  so  very  long  ago 
no  one  had  thought  of  offering  any  explanation.  We 
had  a  strange  way  of  looking  at  things  in  those  elder 
days.  When  a  boy  I  was  shown  a  most  curious  plant,  a 
shrub  found  by  our  northern  streams,  formerly  not  rare, 
the  leatherwood.  I  was  informed  that  this  shrub  was 
unique,  the  only  thing  of  its  sort  on  this  side  of  the 
world ;  that  it  was  planted  here  by  the  Creator  to  meet 
the  wants  of  the  red  man  who  was  wont  to  use  its  tough 
pliable  fibrous  bark  in  all  his  simple  industries.  I  by 
no  means  dispute  that  older  explanation:  it  were  per- 
haps hard  to  demonstrate  its  lack  of  truth.  It  has  in 
its  support  the  fact  indubitable  that  the  bark  was  used 
as  described ;  but  nevertheless,  I  do  not  believe  that  just 


202  On  the  Campus 

that  explanation  would  ever  be  offered  now.  On  the 
other  hand  we  should  simply  say,  having  less  immediate 
respect  to  reasons  teleologic,  where  is  the  rest  of  it? 
This  species  seems  to  be  monotypic,  here  wholly  alone; 
where  are  its  congeners  ?  And  so  in  the  present  problem, 
our  first  inquiry  is  —  How  in  the  world  did  this  happen  ? 
Where  are  the  rest  of  the  cypresses  ?  where  are  the  kin  of 
this  particular  pine  ? 

The  cypresses  of  North  America  are  seven :  one  known 
as  the  white  cedar  occurs  along  the  Atlantic  coast  and  is 
associated  with  the  bald  cypress,  a  relative  but  not  of 
the  same  genus;  three  are  Mexican  and  two  belong  to 
Oregon  and  Washington,  while  one  is  confined  to  the 
peninsula  of  Lower  California,  All  are  Pacific  Coast 
species  but  one.  On  the  other  side  of  the  ocean  the  dis- 
tribution is  equally  peculiar.  There  is  no  cypress  in 
western  Europe;  two  or  three  are  in  China  or  Thibet, 
one  of  which  is  now  found  as  far  west  as  Constantinople, 
planted  everywhere  over  graves:  curious  fact;  not  with- 
out suggestion,  but  not  to  be  here  discussed.  It  seems 
then  that  the  cypresses  tend  to  follow  the  shore-lines  of 
the  great  continents.  They  are  few ;  they  are  northern ; 
they  do  not  exist  south  of  the  equator  and  in  fact  form 
two  groups,  separated  by  the  whole  diameter  of  the 
globe.  This  of  course  would  only  deepen  the  mystery 
that  surrounds  our  lone  California  species,  were  it  not 
for  some  other  facts  the  first  of  which  began  to  come  to 
light  about  fifty  years  ago. 

Just  about  one  hundred  years  ago,  in  1807,  in  fact,  a 
man  named  John  Franklin  having  won  distinction  at  the 
famous  battle  of  Trafalgar,  was  put  in  command  of  an 


Point  Lobos  203 


English  ship  to  survey  the  northern  coast  of  Australia. 
On  that  ship,  as  it  happened,  fared  forth  a  remarkable 
student  of  nature.  He  was  a  botanist,  bearing  the  sim- 
ple name  of  Robert  Brown,  one  of  the  greatest  natural- 
ists, I  believe  the  greatest  botanist,  that  ever  lived.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  Brown  so  impressed  his  captain  that  the 
latter  resolved  then  and  there  to  devote  his  life  to  scienti- 
fic investigation.  We  all  know  the  rest  of  that  thrill- 
ing story;  how  under  Sir  John  Franklin  and  those  who 
followed  him,  expedition  after  expedition  visited  the  ex- 
treme north  under  an  inspiration  that  has  never  flagged ; 
unabated  to  this  very  day.  Nor  have  these  expeditions 
ever  lost  the  primal  purpose  of  John  Franklin.  Every 
vessel  that  has  returned,  from  the  days  of  the  Erebus 
until  now,1  has  brought  back  new  facts,  new  truth,  and 
new  problems  for  thinking  men.  Early  in  the  fifties  a 
vessel  returning  from  Grinnell-Land  unloaded  a  cargo 
of  fossil  leaves.  Further  research  brought  similar  ma- 
terial from  the  coast  of  Greenland  and  from  Spitzbergen. 
These  by  good  hap  were  sent  to  Switzerland,  to  a  busy 
minister  there  who  had  been  recently  picking  up  similar 
objects,  then  all  unstudied,  at  different  places  in  the 
Alps !  To  the  astonishment  of  the  world  Heer  reported 
from  Grinnell-Land  and  from  Greenland,  all  sorts  of 
flowering  plants  of  types  familiar,  but  now  found  only  in 
temperate  or  semi-tropical  lands.  There  were  poplars 
and  walnuts  and  hazels,  nor  less  magnolias  and  laurels 
and  figs.  Heer  had  found  something  more  than  fossil 
leaves;  he  had  so  to  speak,  discovered  a  fossil  climate, 
and  the  key  to  the  distribution  of  the  flora  of  all  the 
i  Dr.  Cook  had  not  yet  returned  when  this  was  written. 


204  On  the  Campus 

northern  world  was  in  his  hands.  Among  the  finds  of 
this  arctic  region,  almost  needless  now  to  say,  the  leaves 
and  cones  of  cypress  are  not  wanting.  You  may  see 
some  of  them,  if  you  please,  yonder  in  Lausanne,  in  the 
now  forever  silent  workshop  of  Pastor  Heer.  The  cy- 
press was  abundant  in  the  tertiary  all  the  way  around 
the  arctic  world.  Point  Lobos  as  we  have  seen  was  a 
sea-bottom  in  those  days,  but  before  the  tertiary  had 
passed  away,  the  whole  coast  range  of  mountains  had 
risen  from  the  ocean,  Point  Lobos  of  course  with  the 
rest,  all  un-named,  unvisited  of  men,  a  headland  stand- 
ing far  out  to  sea. 

Some  time  near  the  close  of  the  tertiary,  these  arctic 
forests  of  Heer  began  a  marvelous  migration.  The 
climate  of  the  polar  regions  began  to  change  for  reasons, 
causes,  who  may  tell?  and  as  the  isotherm  came  south 
the  several  species  followed,  each  on  its  own  meridian. 
Great  Lakes  in  those  times  occupied  the  center  of  the 
continent  or  perhaps  even  then,  these  lakes  were  drained 
or  draining,  inducing  the  same  desert  conditions  that 
now  mark  all  the  central  plains.  Of  cypress  one  only 
species,  or  stock,  went  down  the  eastern  coast  as  we  have 
seen,  driven  farther  and  farther  by  the  oncoming  age 
of  ice,  others  went  down  the  western  coast,  far  down  into 
Mexico,  even;  among  the  rest  our  Monterey  species 
driven  coastward  too ;  caught  at  length,  strangely  enough, 
between  el  Monte  Diabolo  and  the  deep  sea,  and  there 
it  is  to  this  day,  a  bit  of  jetsam,  from  the  Mer  de  Glace 
that  one  time  made  all  central  California  like  the  present 
arctic  zone.  "With  the  cypress  went  south  the  pines 
too,  probably,  and  the  sequoias,  and  all  the  rest.  Some 


Point  Lobos  205 


of  these  perhaps  never  passed  the  limits  of  southern 
California ;  some  passed  on  into  the  cul  de  sac  known  as 
lower  California,  and  have  never  gotten  out,  one  pine,  at 
least,  and  one  cypress.  The  cypresses  seem  always  to 
have  lead  the  van  for  they  are  nearly  all  found  to-day  on 
the  very  outskirts  of  forest  vegetation,  whatever  the  re- 
gion may  be.  One  Mexican  species  is  in  Oaxaca,  the 
very  southernmost  Mexican  state,  on  the  Pacific  sea 
again,  in  that  low  latitude,  15°  north. 

But  as  already  noted,  the  ice-king's  reign  in  California 
was  not  forever.  The  ice  is  nearly  all  gone  now,  has 
been  for  centuries,  save  that  here  and  there  a  dimin- 
ished glacier  still  lingers  in  some  shaded  trough  on  the 
peaks  of  the  Sierras,  and  still  forms  the  icy  fountain  of 
some  fair  California  stream.  With  the  retreat  of  the  ice 
the  plants  moved  back  again,  or  at  least  attempted  so  to 
do.  The  march,  of  course,  is  now  in  reverse  order; 
larches  and  spruces  and  pines  now  lead  the  procession 
while  sequoias  and  cypresses  are  left  the  last  to  bring 
up  the  rear.  They  are  marching  now;  by  noting  their 
present  position  you  may  see  the  progress  of  this  stately 
journey.  The  gentle  sunlight  beats  their  music  on  the 
mountain-spires,  and  the  earth  herself  keeps  time  for 
them,  nodding,  nodding,  in  nutation  and  precession.1 

But,  as  in  returns  of  any  sort,  the  original  order  is 
never  quite  preserved,  so  here,  the  sequoias  or  "big 
trees"  are  following  close  behind  the  pines  pushing 
north  and  west;  one  species  has  slipped  in  before  our 
cypress  and  in  fact  effectually  shuts  it  off  from  the 

i  See  in  this  connection  Our  National  Paries,  John  Muir,  pp. 
335  et  seq. 


206  On  the  Campus 

entire  northern  California  coast,  a  region  the  species 
might  otherwise  have  occupied,  since  it  does  grow  further 
north  when  planted.  The  superseding  species  of  red- 
wood starts  in  at,  say  at  Punta  del  Sur,  fifty  miles  or  so 
down  the  coast,  and  runs  northwest,  just  inland  from  the 
species  we  are  studying,  and  only  a  few  miles  away,  on 
Portland  Creek,  then  on  to  Santa  Cruz,  just  across 
Monterey  Bay  and  finally  the  coast  range,  not  without 
interruption,  but  all  the  way  to  Mendocino  and  further. 
The  only  other  sequoia  took,  on  the  return,  the  Mount 
Whitney  route,  fills  the  Valley  of  the  Yosemite  and 
King's  River  canons  and  has  gotten  north  as  far  as  the 
Calaveras.  Meantime  two  species  of  cypress  seem  to  have 
outstripped  the  sequoias,  and  axe  found  along  the  coast 
beyond  Mendocino,  one  species  even  in  British  America 
sparsely  but  indiscriminately  mingled  with  other  con- 
iferous trees ! 

But  our  Monterey  cypress  and  our  Monterey  pine  are 
stranded,  like  other  refugees  of  whom  history  tells  a  not 
infrequent  story;  they  became  separate  from  their 
brethren  in  the  time  of  stress,  and  have  remained  an 
isolated  colony  ever  since.  It  seems  that  the  retreat  of 
the  glaciers  in  middle  California  was  in  some  way  ac- 
companied or  associated  with  diminished  rainfall,  or 
snowfall,  and  the  departure  of  the  snows  left  Mount 
Diabolo  a  desert  on  its  western  side,  on  both  sides  in 
fact.  Up  the  valley  close  behind  the  retreating  forests 
came  the  flora  of  the  desert,  waiting  to  entrap  and  utter- 
ly supplant  all  stragglers,  as  wolves  were  wont  to  bring 
down  the  straying  deer.  Our  cypress  trees  are  doomed ; 
they  have  been  left  behind  in  the  shifting  of  the  ages 


Point  Lobos  207 


and  left  forever.  Only  the  hand  of  intelligent  man  can 
save  them  now.  As  just  remarked,  they  will  grow, 
where  planted  as  far  north  as  the  Columbia  River,  and 
will  probably  be  thus  perpetuated  in  cultivation.  The 
associated  pine,  though  now  occupying  a  somewhat  wider 
freehold,  is  after  all  not  so  fortunate.  Of  little  value  for 
lumber,  and  less  tractable  in  cultivation,  it  has  small 
assistance  from  our  present  system  of  economy.  For 
years  the  Chinaman  has  been  busy  hewing  the  Monterey 
pine  away  to  feed  the  furnaces  of  the  Hotel  del  Monte, 
as  well  as  the  insatiate  if  more  modest  heaters  of  a  thous- 
and houses.  Besides  this,  chicken-farming  is  the  fashion- 
able industry  of  the  region  and  to  afford  room  for  such 
gentle  activities,  the  pines  are  widely  cleared  away.  Upon 
our  criminally  careless  methods  of  cutting,  the  usual  dis- 
asters have  of  course  ensued.  Great  fires,  started  in 
refuse  left  by  the  Mongolian  choppers,  some  years  since 
burned  over  several  thousand  acres.  But  for  this  tree, 
the  site  of  Hotel  del  Monte  and  the  village  of  Pacific 
Grove  would  see  but  plains  of  wind-swept  sand.  The 
live-oak,  as  it  appears,  cannot  do  the  work  alone. 

The  third  plant  mentioned,  the  live-forever,  true  to  its 
name,  seems  destined  to  immortality.  It  has  found  its 
home  in  the  niches  of  the  granite,  keeping  pace  with  its 
retreat  before  the  advancing  ocean.  The  race  in  this 
world  is  sometimes  not  to  the  mighty. 

Hcec  fdbula  docet ; 

1.  No  fact  in  the  natural  world  is  insignificant.     A 
few  old  pine  trees  on  a  rock  may  have  a  scientific  interest 
far  transcending  that  of  some  wide-spread  forest. 

2.  No  fact  in  this  world  is  isolated.     The  destiny  of 


208  On  the  Campus 

the  Monterey  cypress,  its  whole  history,  has  been  bound 
up  with  the  history  of  every  part  of  the  world,  nay 
probably  of  the  solar  system  entire.  The  changing  scenes 
of  geologic  ages  pass  before  us,  and  the  very  latest  field 
of  effort  and  inquiry,  the  pleistocene,  with  its  record  of 
alternating  climate,  even  our  latest  knowledge,  touches 
also  Monterey. 

3.  How  very  small  is  still  the  scope  of  human  knowl- 
edge !  We  find  here  and  there  a  fact,  here  and  there  a 
bed  of  leaves.  Upon  these  we  build,  and  by  imagina- 
tion lightly  span  vast  stretches  of  the  unknown.  The 
cypress  was  once  in  Greenland,  it  is  now  in  California. 
But  where  lay  the  causes  of  the  change  in  climate,  the 
motive  of  this  migration,  or  what  were  the  incidents  of 
the  journey,  no  single  ascertained  fact  may  yet  cer- 
tainly declare. 

Here  then  we  are  able  to  trace  the  probable  history 
of  at  least  one  type  of  existing  conifer  and  learn  the 
later  chapters  in  its  history  —  not  the  earlier  —  who 
knows  what  these  may  have  been  or  how  the  cypress 
reached  the  arctic  pole?  Yet  from  what  we  now  behold 
we  are  sure  those  earlier  chapters  once  were  plain.  Only 
of  this  we  may  be  sure :  were  the  whole  record  once  before 
us,  we  should  find  our  cypress  a  stranger  even  at  the 
pole,  a  passing  transient  whose  ancestors  had,  in  the  ages 
gone  before,  carboniferous  devonian,  obedient  to  con- 
tinual summons,  journeyed  up  and  down  the  shaping 
continents  of  the  world,  responsive  to  all  the  perturba- 
tions that  have  moulded  the  planet  itself,  persistent,  per- 
petual, relentless  as  the  lapse  of  years. 


THE  BOTANY  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

The  universality  of  Shakespeare  is  the  common  re- 
mark of  critics.  Other  great  men  have  been  versatile; 
Shakespeare  alone  is  universal.  He  alone  of  all  great 
men  seems  to  have  been  able  to  follow  his  own  advice, 
1  'to  hold  as  'twere  the  mirror  up  to  nature."  On  the 
clear  surface  of  his  thought,  as  on  a  deep  glacial  lake, 
the  whole  shore  lies  reflected  —  not  alone  the  clouds,  the 
sky,  the  woods,  the  rocks,  the  mountain  path  by  which 
the  shepherd  strolls,  not  alone  the  broad  highway  by 
which  may  march  the  king  in  splendor,  the  peasant  with 
his  wain,  but  even  the  humbler  objects  by  the  still 
water's  edge,  the  trodden  grass,  the  fluttering  sedge,  the 
broken  reed,  the  tiniest  flower,  all  things,  all  nature  in 
action  or  repose  finds  counterpart  within  the  glassy 
depths. 

Hence  it  is  that  no  man,  at  least  no  English-speaking 
man,  reads  Shakespeare  wrong.  Everybody  understands 
him.  Here  is  a  sort  of  Anglo-Saxon  bible  in  which,  so 
far  as  the  world  goes,  every  soul  finds  himself,  with  all 
his  hopes,  his  doubts,  his  whims,  depicted.  "We  are 
therefore  not  surprised  that  everybody  claims  a  share 
in  Shakespeare;  rather  claims  the  poet  as  his  own.  The 
Protestant  is  sure  that  Shakespeare  despised  the  hier- 
archy ;  the  Catholic  is  quite  as  certain  that  he  loved  the 
Church.  There  exists  an  essay  to  prove  him  a  Presby- 
terian; another  to  show  that  the  great  dramatist  was  a 


210  On  the  Campus 

Universalist.  A  volume  has  been  written  to  prove  the 
man  a  soldier;  another  that  he  was  a  lawyer,  a  printer, 
a  fisherman,  a  freemason,  and  here  are  five  or  six  arti- 
cles to  show  that  Shakespeare  was  a  gardener.1 

All  this  simply  means  that  the  poet  had  a  marvelous 
faculty  for  close  observing ;  that  his  vision  was  accurate, 
his  instinct  wonderfully  true.  It  may  be  therefore  worth 
our  while  to  study  for  a  little  this  remarkable  man  from 
the  standpoint  of  the  naturalist,  to  see  how  he  who  so 
vividly  paints  a  passion  can  paint  a  flower;  how  the 
man  who  limns  a  character,  till  beyond  the  photograph 
it  starts  to  actuality,  will  catch  the  essential  features  of 
some  natural  truth. 

We  shall  nowhere  lack  for  material.  Shakespeare  has 
abundant  use  for  flowers  and  trees.  Other  poets  before 
his  day  had  mentioned  vegetable  forms  indeed,  mentioned 
them  in  plenty  and  observed  some  of  them  with  great 
precision.  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  for  instance,  both  use 
the  world  of  plants  wherewith  to  adorn  their  songs  and 
stories;  but  it  requires  only  the  briefest  examination  to 
show  that  these  earlier  writers  use  their  material  in  an 
entirely  different  way;  on  purpose,  so  to  speak;  that  is, 
the  flower,  plant,  or  tree  is  introduced  purely  as  a  matter 

i  In  preparation  of  this  article,  the  author  has  consulted  chiefly 
the  following:  John  Gerarde,  The  Herball  or  General  Historic  of 
Plants,  1597 ;  Shakespeare,  Edward  Dowden,  1872 ;  William  Shake- 
speare, Works,  Globe  edition,  1867;  Natural  History  of  Shake- 
speare, Bessie  Mayou,  1877;  Shakespeare's  England,  William  Win- 
ter, 1894;  The  Plant-lore  and  Garden-craft  of  Shakespeare,  Rev. 
Canon,  H.  F.  Ellacombe,  1896;  The  Gardener's  Chronicle-,  sundry 
pamphlets,  and  shorter  articles;  Shakespeare's  Works,  annotated 
edition,  Sir  Sidney  Lee ;  Shakespeare  Once  More,  James  E.  Lowell, 
1868. 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  211 

of  form,  for  the  time  as  the  main  topic  of  discussion,  to 
show  what  the  poet  has  heard  or  read. 

Take,  for  instance,  Chaucer's  picture  of  an  English 
forest  and  his  quest  there  for  the  nightingale.  The 
nightingale  is  the  proper  bird  for  the  poet.  The  poets 
had  often  told  each  other  so.  Chaucer  had  read  what  his 
predecessors  had  to  say,  and  accordingly,  on  a  certain 
morning,  as  if  to  meet  a  personage  of  distinction,  he  ar- 
rays himself  appropriately  and  sallies  forth  a  little  way 
from  London  to  hear,  if  fortune  favor,  the  poetic  bird 
of  languor.  This  was  a  most  creditable  thing  to  do; 
Chaucer  was  scientific  so  far;  he  wished  to  see  and  hear 
for  himself.  Literary  men  in  all  ages  are  wont  to  wor- 
ship traditional  nightingales ;  not  so  Chaucer.  But  hear 
him: 

"Up  I  rose  three  hour6s  after  twelfe 
About  the  springing  of  the  gladsome   day, 
And  on  I  put  my  gear  and  mine  array, 
And  to  a  pleasant  grove  I  'gan  to  pass 
Long  ere  the  brighte  sun  uprisen  was; 

' '  In  which  were  oakes  great,  straight  as  a  line, 
Under  which  the  grass  so  fresh  of  hue 
Was  newly  sprung;  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Every  tree  well  from  his  fellow  grew, 
With  branches  broad  laden  with  leaves  new, 
That  sprungen  out  against  the  sunn6  sheen, 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  green, 

"Which  (as  me  thought)  was  a  right  pleasant  sight; 
And  eke  the  birdee  songes  for  to  hear 
Would  have  rejoiced  any  earthly  wight; 
And  I,  that  could  not  yet  in  no  mannere 
Hearen  the  nightingale  of  all  the  year, 


212  On  the  Campus 

Full  busily  heark'ned  with  heart  and  ear, 
If  I  her  voice  perceive  could  anywhere." 

—  The  Flower  and  Leaf 

Here  you  will  note  we  have  a  formal  description  of  the 
oak  forest  —  effected  by  enumerating  particulars.  You 
go  out  to  see  the  forest  and  you  see  it,  the  spaces  between 
the  trees  and  all. 

Take  another  bit  of  Chaucer  by  way  of  contrast :  this, 
as  discussion  of  a  flower,  is  from  the  Prologue  to  the 
Legend  of  Good  Women: 

"When  comen  is  the  May, 
Then  in  my  bed  there  daweth  me  no  day 
That  I  n'am  up  and  walking  in  the  mead, 
To  see  this  flower  against  the  sunne  spread, 
When  it  upriseth  early  in  the  morrow; 
That  blissful  sight  softeneth  all  my  sorrow; 
So  glad  am  I,  when  that  I  have  presence 
Of  it,  to  doen  it  all  reverence, 
As  she  that  is  of  all  flow'rs  the  flow'r." 

"And  down  on  knees  anon  right  I  me  set, 
And  as  I  could  this  pleasant  flower  I  grette, 
Kneeling  always  till  it  unclosed  was 
Upon  the  small  and  soft  and  swete  gras. ' ' 

This  is  surely  a  bit  of  pleasant  affectation,  not  unlike 
the  raptures  of  the  Chicago  lady  who  on  the  Alps  wor- 
ships the  edelweiss,  the  form  and  real  meaning  of  the 
flower  alike  to  her  unknown. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  Shakespeare  never  does  anything 
like  this.  You  are  carried  naturally  forward  on  the 
tide  of  his  story  and  see  the  flowers  as  you  pass  by. 
They  are  about  us  all  the  time,  and  his  dramatis  persona 
may  pick  them,  use  them  as  they  will.  He  never  thinks 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  213 

of  describing  for  the  purpose  of  our  recognition,  as  does 
Chaucer,  or  of  giving  us  all  at  once  a  list  of  trees  as  does 
Spenser;  and  yet  he  knew  all  the  trees  that  Spenser 
knew;  but,  in  our  journey,  we  meet  the  trees,  trees  of 
every  sort,  and  they  serve  a  temporary  purpose  in  the 
unfolding  plot  as  in  the  spreading  landscape.  They 
overarch  the  king,  they  catch  the  first  glances  of  the 
morning  light,  they  wag  their  tall  tops  against  the  sky, 
they  stand  bare  and  dead  on  some  forgotten  shore  of 
Timon's  dismal  exile;  but  in  every  case  they  stand  just 
where  they  belong;  they  have  always  their  appropriate 
setting.  Furthermore,  they  always  come  to  the  relief  of 
the  principal  action.  They  are  like  the  background  of 
the  well-appointed  stage ;  they  relieve  what  might  other- 
wise prove  harsh  or  dissonant.  This  comes  out  more  than 
once.  Some  of  Shakespeare's  most  beautiful  touches,  so 
far  as  blossoms  are  concerned,  come  in  the  very  climax 
of  the  play's  most  sombre  or  pathetic  movement.  We 
walk  with  Horatio  "in  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the 
night"  when  suddenly  the  darkness  parts  and  our  eyes 
rest  upon  whole  banks  of  bloom  all  glinting  in  the  bril- 
liance of  some  sudden  beam.  Ophelia  sings  and  dies 
amid  the  flowers. 

The  extreme  naturalness  of  Shakespeare's  touch  is 
due,  in  part  at  least,  to  his  boyhood  familiarity  with 
rural  sights  and  sounds.  England  in  Shakespeare's  day 
as  now  was  a  land  of  bloom,  and  the  poet  spoke  of  violets 
and  primroses  as  naturally  as  his  Lord  spoke  of  lilies 
and  for  the  same  reason ;  those  were  the  flowers  he  saw, 
had  always  known;  they  formed  part  of  the  furnishing 
of  his  mind.  But  Shakespeare  does  more  than  mention 


214  On  the  Campus 

the  plants  that  share  in  the  splendor  of  his  pageantry; 
he  is  not  content  at  all  with  the  flashes  of  color,  the 
breathings  of  odor;  he  generally  gives  us  a  single  detail 
that  flashes  the  individual  plant  unmistakably  upon  our 
sight.  In  his  quick  description  he  shows  an  exactitude, 
a  discriminating  perception  that,  had  it  been  turned  to 
Nature's  problems  seriously  at  all,  must  at  once  have 
transformed  the  science  of  his  age.  But  Shakespeare 
was  not  a  man  of  science;  he  was  a  poet.  In  his  views 
of  nature  he  resembles  the  great  poets  of  the  world, 
notably  Lucretius ;  and  like  Lucretius  he  not  infrequently 
outruns  the  science  of  his  time,  uses  his  imagination,  di- 
vining things  invisible.  Moreover,  consistent  with  the 
necessities  of  action,  Shakespeare's  plants  are  living 
things;  they  form  a  garden,  not  an  herbarium.  They 
stand  before  us  in  multitudes  so  that  it  is  difficult  for 
the  present  purpose  to  know  what  to  select.  We  shall 
have  to  be  satisfied  with  a  few  specimen  forms  brought 
out  in  quotation  no  more  extensive  than  seems  necessary 
to  the  argument.  Of  course,  there  are  many  plants  to- 
day discussed  of  which  Shakespeare  never  heard.  He 
does  not  speak  of  many  sorts  of  fungi,  of  slime  moulds, 
microbes ;  he  knew  nothing  about  these.  The  microscope 
had  hardly  been  invented,  and  the  unseen  world  was  as 
yet  largely  personified.  And  yet  Shakespeare  has  not 
failed  to  note  the  visible  signs  of  some  of  our  microscopic 
forms. 

Critics  have  wasted  their  time  and  the  patience  of 
mankind  in  an  effort  to  identify  hebona,  the  "lep- 
erous  distilment"  poured  into  the  porches  of  the  royal 
ear.  Almost  profitless  are  such  discussions.  Yet  we  may 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  215 

note  that  we  have  here  to  do  with  an  effect;  the  means 
of  producing  it  need  not  be  too  closely  questioned.  Be- 
fore the  rush  of  action,  the  weird  setting,  the  voice  of 
an  apparition,  the  excited  audience  cares  not  what  the 
mysterious  vial  may  contain  —  ebony,  henbane,  yew,  or 
whether  it  were  entirely  empty.  "What  is  called  for  is  a 
speedy  and  mysterious  taking  off.  Had  the  scene  been 
laid  in  Italy,  the  effect  had  been  reached  by  the  fateful 
prick  of  a  jeweled  pin,  some  ring  upon  a  Borgian  finger 
whose  pressure  was  the  paralysis  of  death.  But  the  king 
died  of  no  such  curari.  Note  the  symptoms : 

"The  leperous  distilment;  whose  effect 
Holds  such  enmity  with  blood  of  man 
That  swift  as  quicksilver  it  courses  through 
The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body, 
And  with  a  sudden  vigour  it  doth  posset 
And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk, 
The  thin  and  wholesome  blood;  so  did  it  mine; 
And  a  most  instant  tetter  barked  about, 
Most  lazar-like,  with  vile  and  loathsome  crust, 
All  my  smooth  body."  — Hamlet,  i:  v,  64-73. 

These  are  the  symptoms  of  blood-poisoning,  vividly  por- 
trayed; of  some  contagion,  communicable  by  infection. 
In  foul  old  London,  Shakespeare  had  doubtless  seen  en- 
demic, zymotic  diseases  of  every  description,  and  drew 
his  picture  from  the  life.  Royal  blood  is  notoriously  un- 
sound, royal  habit  leaves  the  porches  of  royal  ears  espe- 
cially exposed.  On  our  supposition  the  vial  need  not 
have  contained  very  much,  not  even  "  ebony. "  The 
dramatist  had  plenty  of  mystery  ready  to  his  hand,  and 
the  "hebona"  is  perhaps  intentionally  ambiguous. 


2i6  On  the  Campus 

Bacterial  diseases  were  of  old  called  plagues ;  they  fell 
from  heaven.  Listen  to  King  Lear: 

"Now,  all  the  plagues  that  in  the  pendulous  air 
Hang  fated  o'er  men's  faults,  light  on  my  daughters!" 

—  Lear,  iii:  iv,  68. 

or  Caliban: 

"All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease!"  — Tempest,  ii:  ii,  1. 

or  Timon: 

"Be  as  a  planetary  plague,  when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  high- voiced  city  hang  his  poison 
In  the  sick  air. "  —  Timon,  iv :  iii,  108. 

Or  they  were  attributed,  as  already  intimated,  to  un- 
seen personal  agencies: 

"This  is  the  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet:  he  begins  at 
curfew,  and  walks  till  the  first  cock;  he  gives  the  web  and 
the  pin,  squints  the  eye,  and  makes  the  hare-lip;  mildews 
the  white  wheat,  and  hurts  the  poor  creature  of  earth." 

—  Lear,  iii:  iv,   120. 

I  quote  this  latter  rather  also  to  show  the  accuracy 
and  compass  of  Shakespeare's  vision.  How  many  peo- 
ple, not  farmers,  have  seen  wheat  whitened  by  the  blight ! 
And  that  is  exactly  the  description,  white  not  "to  the 
harvest, ' '  but  whiter  still  to  sterility  and  death. 

But  leaving  aside  all  microscopic  forms  which  may  or 
may  not  be  incidentally  touched  upon  everywhere,  we 
may  turn  our  attention  next  to  cryptogamic  plants  which 
are  positively  defined.  The  sudden  springing  of  mush- 
rooms, for  instance,  especially  at  night,  so  unreal  and  yet 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  217 

withal  so  realistic,  made  their  creation  a  suitable  trick 

for  Prospero: 

"You  demi-puppets  that 

By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites,  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew. ' '        —  Tempest,  iv :  v,  36. 

The  green  sour  ringlets  on  the  fields  ''whereof  the  ewe 
not  bites"  are  fairy  rings.  The  same  thing  appears  in 
the  speech  of  Dame  Quickly : 

"And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring; 
The  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be, 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see." 

—  Merry  Wives,  v :  v,  69. 

Fungi,  toadstools,  mushrooms,  and  so  forth,  are  fructi- 
fications only;  the  vegetative  part  of  the  plants  perme- 
ates the  soil,  feeds  on  its  organic  matter,  and  spreads  al- 
most equally,  we  may  assume,  in  all  directions  from  the 
point  of  starting.  When  now  this  vegetative  growth  has 
accumulated  energy  to  form  fruit,  the  sporocarps,  or 
mushrooms,  rise  all  around  at  the  limits  of  activity: 
hence,  in  a  circle. 

The  fungi  cut  small  figure  in  Shakespeare  —  i.e.,  con- 
sidering their  numbers  and  almost  omnipresence.  But 
we  must  remember  that  they  were  at  that  time  studied 
by  few,  their  significance  and  interest  little  suspected. 
They  formed  part  of  the  realm  of  the  world  unseen ;  they 
came  and  went  at  the  instance  of  powers  unknown,  mostly 
personified,  imaginary,  a  misty  population,  the  thought 
of  which  kept  for  long  ages  the  childhood  of  our  race  in 


2i8  On  the  Campus 

terror.  Shakespeare  saw  the  forms  of  unstudied  plants, 
everything  visible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  really  omitted 
very  little.  He  speaks  of  mosses  —  the  lichens  were  in- 
cluded with  them  —  chiefly  as  indicative  of  age  in  the 
object  on  which  they  rest : 

"Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  mossed  with  age 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity." 

—  As  You  Like  It,  iv:  iii,  105. 
or  again: 

".     .     .    will  these  mossed  trees 
That  have  outlived  the  eagle  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  where  thou  point 'st  out?" 

—  Tvmon,  iv:  iii,  223. 

Then  again  he  simply  touches  them,  but  in  such  a  way 
as  to  reveal  his  full  appreciation  of  their  beauty,  as  in 
Cymbeline,  iv,  ii.  For  the  decoration  of  Imogen's  grave 
the  ruddock  would  bring  flowers  — 

".     .    .     bring  thee  all  this; 

Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none, 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse."  — Cymbeline,  iv:  ii,  224. 

The  " furred  moss"  to  "winter-ground  thy  corse"  is  ex- 
o^uisite. 

Ferns,  though  so  much  larger,  so  handsome,  and  in  our 
day  so  all-attractive,  failed  generally  to  impress  our 
fathers. 

Butler,  writing  in  1670,  has  this  to  say : 

' '  They  spring  like  fern,  that  infant  weed, 
Equivocally  without  a  seed, 
And  have  no  possible  foundation 
But  merely  in  th'  imagination." 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  219 

Now,  as  far  as  Shakespeare  was  concerned,  ferns  an- 
swered his  purpose  without  seed  just  as  well  as  with  such 
visible  means  of  perpetuity.  His  only  reference  is  in  the 
lines  where  Gadshill  says: 

"We  have  the  receipt  of  fern-seed,  we  walk  invisible"; 
and  Chamberlain  replies: 

' '  Nay,  by  my  faith,  I  think  you  are  more  belonging  to  the 
Night  than  to  fern-seed  for  your  walking  invisible/ 

—  I  Henry  IV,  ii:  i,  95. 

In  this  connection  Canon  Ellacombe  suggests  the  doc- 
trine of  signatures.  The  God  of  Nature  had  written  for 
us  his  human  children  prescriptions  all  over  the  leafy 
world.  The  remedy  indicated  by  its  form  its  own  ap- 
plication. Thus  a  heart-shaped  leaf  was  good  medicine 
for  cardiac  troubles,  a  lung-like  leaf  was  good  for  con- 
sumption, a  lungwort  in  fact,  and  so  a  liverwort,  a  spleen- 
wort,  and  the  like.  Gerarde,  and,  in  fact,  all  the  old 
medical  writers  throughout  the  centuries,  are  full  of  this. 
Now,  what  more  natural  than  that  a  plant  which  could 
thus  perpetuate  itself  age  after  age  by  means  invisible 
should  be  able  to  confer  the  much-sought  gift  of  invisi- 
bility, the  power  to  disappear  and  reappear  at  pleasure  ? 
Many  people  so  believed.  Shakespeare  appears  to  have 
been  skeptical. 

Turn  we  now  to  the  flowering  plants;  the  amount  of 
material  at  our  disposal,  as  already  indicated,  is  im- 
mense. Shakespeare  was  evidently  a  great  lover  of  flow- 
ers simply  as  such.  His  pages  from  first  to  last  are  or- 
nate with  color,  almost  redolent  of  roses,  lilies,  eglantine, 


220  On  the  Campus 

with  every  conceivable  metaphor  and  trophe  — ' '  the  bud 
of  love,"  the  " nettle  of  danger,"  "the  flower  of  safety." 
Their  lovely  shapes  are  ever  before  him ;  he  is  spellbound 
with  their  beauty.  England  itself  is  a  "sea- walled  gar- 
den. ' '  Grammatical  forms  may  vanish,  if  only  the  flower 
may  live : 

"Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. ' ' 

—  Cymbeline,  ii:  iii,  21. 

We  need  the  music  of  rhyme,  and  so  the  image  of  the 
morning  flowers,  the  fiery  steeds  that  drink  them  dry, 
shall  fascinate  us  that  we  forget  the  grammar.  It  will 
not  do  to  say  lie;  the  word  must  rhyme  with  arise,  and 
further  on  with  eyes; 

"And  winking  Mary -buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 
With  everything  that  pretty  is, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise. " 

For  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies  the  poet  spreads  this  sort 
of  a  couch: 

"I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows, 
Quite  over-eanopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglantine; 
There  sleeps  Titania  sometime  of  the  night, 
Lulled  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight,"  etc. 

—  A  Midsummer-Night 's  Dream,  ii :  i,  249. 

Such  cases  reveal  the  impress,  the  healthy,  happy  im- 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  221 

press  which  Nature  could  exercise  on  this  the  foremost 
man  of  all  the  world,  the  harmony  between  Nature  and 
Nature's  child.  All  the  plants  in  the  last  quotation  are 
wild  flowers,  except  the  musk-roses,  and  these  are  so 
common  in  England  as  to  be  almost  wild.  The  eglantine 
was  the  sweetbrier,  said  to  be  wild  in  all  the  southern 
part  of  the  island  and  popular  in  the  literature  of  all  re- 
corded centuries.  Canon  Ellacombe  here  cites  Gerarde 
describing  as  follows:  "The  leaves  are  glittering,  of 
beautiful  green  color,  of  smell  most  pleasant.  .  .  The 
fruit  when  it  is  ripe  maketh  most  pleasant  meats,  and 
banqueting  dishes,  as  tarts  and  such  like,  the  making 
whereof  I  commit  to  the  cunning  cook,  and  teeth  to  eat 
them  in  the  rich  man's  mouth." 

The  sweetness  of  the  leaf  of  the  eglantine  is  referred 
to  by  Shakespeare  in  another  passage  which  I  venture  to 
quote  now  for  another  purpose,  to  show  the  accuracy  of 
his  description  as  applied  to  simple  flowers.  The  lines 
kre  from  the  scene  quoted  before.  Arviragus  and  Gui- 
derius  would  bury  the  swooning  Imogen.  They  think  her 
dead: 

"I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave:   thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose;  nor 
The  azured  harebell,  like  thy  veins;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweetened  not  thy  breath."          — Cymbeline,  iv:  ii,  220. 

Primroses  when  pale  are  the  palest  of  all  withering 
plants.  The  flowers  change  color  with  maturity,  especial- 
ly after  fertilization.  The  paleness  of  the  primrose  is 
the  pallor  of  decay.  But  the  azure  harebell  —  behold  it 


222  On  the  Campus 

waving  on  its  slender  stipe  beneath  the  shade  of  some 
great  rock  —  who  can  look  into  its  delicate  cerulean  cup 
again  and  not  bethink  him  of  the  blue- veined  eyelid  sleep 
that  falls  upon  our  human  flowers! 

The  cowslip  is  another  common  English  flower  painted 
by  Shakespeare  to  perfection.  The  meadows  about  old 
Stratford  church  are  yet  to  this  day  full  of  representa- 
tives of  this  curious  species.  The  cowslip  is  a  primrose 
but  remarkable  for  orange-tinted  spots  decking  the  bases 
of  the  petals.  You  may  not  see  these  markings  unless 
you  pick  the  flower  to  pieces.  Then  when  you  hold  the 
petal  up  to  the  light  the  spot  shines  ruby  red.  Now 
Shakespeare  says,  speaking  of  Queen  Mab : 

"The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 
These  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors; 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear." 

—  A  Midsummer-Night 's  Dream,  ii :  i,  10. 

To  understand  all  this  we  must  remember  that  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  in  the  habit  of  conferring  upon  her  fa- 
vorites certain  monopolies  of  one  sort  or  another.  Men 
so  favored  grew  very  rich  and  were  of  course  the  objects 
of  envy  on  the  part  of  their  neighbors.  They  were  called 
pensioners  and,  as  the  nouveaux  riches  generally,  seem 
to  have  been  fond  of  display. 

The  cowslips  then  were  the  pensioners  of  the  fairy 
queen.  But  imagine  the  poet  holding  up  the  petals  of 
this  simple  flower,  holding  them  to  the  light,  he  could  not 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  223 

have  used  them  unless  he  had  so  done,  and  then  at  last, 
far  from  envying  the  creatures  of  the  royal  bounty,  he 
seems  the  rather  to  smile  at  all  their  pomp,  as  if  in  hold- 
ing up  the  little  flower  he  said  again  — ' '  Even  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these. ' ' 

The  same  accuracy  of  detail  is  evinced  in  many  other 
places.  Take,  for  instance,  Shakespeare's  description  of 
the  violet  all  the  way  through.  It  moves  him  chiefly  by 
its  odor: 

' '  To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 
To  smooth  the  ice,  to  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 
Is  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess. " 

—  King  John,  iv :  ii,  11. 

Nevertheless,  we  have  violets  dim,  and  violets  blue,  and 
purple  violets,  and  more  particularly  '  *  blue-veined ' '  vio- 
lets, as  if  the  poet  looked  with  a  lens  into  the  very  throat 
of  the  flower  which  Frenchmen  call ' '  a  thought. "  "  And 
there  is  pansies  —  that's  for  thoughts. " 
His  description  of  the  elm  is  equally  exact : 

"So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  entwist;  the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. " 

—  A  Midsummer-Night 's  Dream,  iv :  i,  47. 

There  is  nothing  better  than  that,  as  you  may  prove  by 
examining  the  twigs  of  even  some  of  our  American 
species;  the  cork  elm,  for  instance.  The  hawthorn,  the 
cedar,  and  the  pine  and  the  oak  especially,  are  most  nat- 


224  On  the  Campus 

urally  treated.  These  are  Shakespeare's  favorite  trees. 
The  cedar  of  Shakespeare  is  the  cedar  of  Lebanon,  com- 
monly planted  throughout  Europe  since  the  time  of  the 
crusades.  Shakespeare  had  probably  seen  specimens  in 
England.  He  uses  it  as  the  type  of  all  that  is  great  and 
fine.  One  author  thinks  he  copies  Ezekiel,  chapter  xxxi. 
The  pine  was  beside  him  all  the  while.  He  knew  the 
secret  of  the  pine  knot,  and  well  described  it : 

lt.     .     .     cheeks  and  disasters 
Grow  in  the  veins  of  actions  highest  reared, 
As  knots,  by  the  conflux  of  meeting  sap, 
Deflect  the  sound  pine  and  divert  his  grain 
Tortive  and  errant  from  his  course  of  growth." 

—  Troilus  and  Cressida,  i :  iii,  5. 

Any  one  who  has  ever  examined  the  case,  or  even  one 
who  has  handled  knotty  lumber,  has  seen  the  wood  fiber 
run  around  the  persistent  base  of  some  dead  limb,  and 
can  appreciate  these  lines.  Such  observer  has  learned 
the  origin  of  a  knot. 

All  these  quotations  show  that  Shakespeare  used  his 
own  eyes  and  used  them  well.  He  saw  the  real  distinc- 
tions of  things,  the  hoariness  on  the  willow  leaf.  He 
found  character  in  the  oak  as  in  the  king,  and  beauty  in 
both.  In  many  of  his  notices  of  natural  objects,  how- 
ever, the  poet  is  not  the  original  observer.  He  portrays 
a  character  by  allowing  him  to  quote  current  opinions, 
fancies,  dreams,  for  these  also  were  the  realities  of  that 
day,  quite  as  much  sometimes  as  oaks  and  forests.  There 
is  concerning  plants  a  sort  of  orthodox  mythology,  and 
thousands  of  years  have  sometimes  contributed  to  the 


f 

The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  225 

reputation  borne  by  a  single  species.  A  curious  illustra- 
tion is  found  in  what  Shakespeare  has  to  say  about  the 
mandrake : 

"Give  me  to  drink  mandragora. 

Why,  madam  I 
That  I  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time.  ' ' 

—  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  i:  v,  4. 
And  again : 

"Not  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  owedst  yesterday. " 

—  OtheUo,  iii:iii,  330. 

Juliet,  reflecting  on  her  proposed  entombment  in  the 
dark  grave  of  the  Capulets,  exclaims : 

"Alack,  alack!  is  it  not  like  that  I, 
So  early  waking,  what  with  loathsome  smells, 
And  shrieks  like  mandrake 's  torn  out  of  the  earth, 
That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad; 
Or,  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears?" 

—  Eomeo  and  Juliet,  iv:  iii,  45. 

The  mandrake  Atropa  officinalis  belongs  to  the  Solan- 
acece,  and,  like  others  of  the  family,  has  narcotic  prop- 
erties. This  was  doubtless  known  to  Shakespeare,  as  in 
the  passage  cited  he  compares  the  mandrake  with  the 
poppy.  The  groaning  and  shrieking  are,  of  course,  the 
purest  superstition.  The  root  of  the  mandrake  was  sup- 
posed to  resemble  the  human  form.  The  favorite  habitat 
assigned  to  the  plant  was  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  and 
men  believed  that  in  some  way  the  bodies  of  criminals 


226  On  the  Campus 

were  reproduced  in  the  growing  plant;  their  very  pains 
and  cries  renewed,  especially  for  him  who  profanely 
dared  to  pull  the  mandrake  from  the  earth.  The  curious 
may  consult  Gerarde. 

These  ideas,  it  is  needless  to  say,  are  very  old;  Pliny 
refers  to  them,  and,  if  I  recollect  well,  Vergil  has  his  hero 
pull  up  some  wild  plant  amid  the  strangest  of  sights  and 
sounds.  With  these  old  myths  are  tied  up,  perchance, 
the  mandrakes  of  King  James's  version.  Nay,  the  super- 
stition still  survives;  look  at  the  wood-cut  in  Webster's 
Unabridged,  and  you  will  discover  that  the  artist  who  set 
out  to  illustrate  the  word  mandrake  for  that  somewhat 
venerable  authority  was  by  no  means  able  to  free  himself 
from  the  ancient  spell.  Credulity  is  evermore  a  factor 
in  the  compound  called  human  nature.  Men  love  to  be 
fooled,  or  to  find  some  support  for  belief  in  manifest  ab- 
surdity. There  is  nothing  so  silly  but  has  its  advocates 
among  men  who  ought  to  know  better. 

A  year  or  two  since,  a  man  brought  from  Ohio  to  the 
University  of  Iowa  an  innocent  five-parted,  digitate, 
black  fungus.  It  was  treasured  in  alcohol.  Why?  Be- 
cause of  its  origin!  An  honest  mechanic,  meeting  with 
accident,  lost  his  fingers  under  the  surgeon 's  knife.  The 
amputated  members  were  neglected,  but  presently  dis- 
covered and  duly  buried  in  the  garden.  The  following 
spring  from  the  "identical  spot"  uprose  a  swarthy  hand, 
black  without,  white  within.  The  hand  was  a  perfect 
mairirde-gloire  for  that  sensation-loving  community.  The 
matter  was  discussed  in  newspapers.  A  long  and  careful 
account  of  the  wonder  was  prepared,  put  in  print,  and 
circulated  among  the  friends  of  the  deceased  —  fingers! 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  227 


i  t 


What  fools  we  mortals  be!"  For  sheer  superstition 
and  crass  stupidity  who  may  say  that  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury may  not  yet  discount  the  days  of  the  Virgin  Queen  ? 
But  I  said  at  the  outset  that  Shakespeare  had  in  some 
instances  anticipated  modern  scientific  teaching.  To  il- 
lustrate this  in  its  most  striking  instance,  I  am  compelled 
to  offer  a  somewhat  long  quotation : 

' '  POLIXENES.  Shepherdess, 

A  fair  one  are  you,  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

PERDITA.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnation  and  streaked  gillyvors, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards:  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden's  barren;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

POLIXENES.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 

Do  you  neglect  them? 

PERDITA.  For  I  have  heard  it  said 

There  is  an  art  which  in  their  piedness  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

POLIXENES.  Say  there  be; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean;  so,  over  that  art 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race :  this  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather,  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

PERDITA.  So  it  is. 

POLIXENES.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyvors, 

And  do  not  call  them  bastards." 

—  A  Winter's  Tale,  iv:  iv,  76-98. 


228  On  the  Campus 

Here  we  have  brought  out  very  distinctly  the  effect  of 
cross-fertilization  in  flowers,  the  result  of  grafting  and 
the  development  of  varieties.  Better  than  that,  we  have 
here  the  recognition  of  that  tendency  in  organisms  to 
vary  that  lies  at  the  very  root  of  the  development  of 
species.  Natural  selection,  survival  of  the  fittest,  were 
impossible  were  it  not  true  that  ''nature  is  made  better 
by  no  mean  but  nature  makes  that  mean";  or,  as  it  is 
more  broadly  stated  a  few  lines  further  on,  ''This  is  an 
art  which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather,  but  the 
art  itself  is  nature."  I  consider  these  very  remarkable 
statements  when  we  reflect  on  the  time  in  which  they 
were  written.  Darwin,  in  1859,  does  but  unfold  the 
thought.  The  selection  which  Shakespeare  notes  as  prac- 
ticed by  gardeners,  and  a  similar  selection  seen  in  the 
world  of  domestic  animals,  gave  Darwin  his  cue  of  nat- 
ural selection.  The  beauty  of  Darwin's  thesis  lies  in  the 
fact  that  the  process  is  natural,  and  such  is  Shakespeare 's 
dictum. 

Later  on,  lines  112-128,  Perdita  brings  out  another 
remarkable  observation  that  has  only  lately  been  con- 
firmed by  the  conclusions  of  science : 

".     .     .     Now  my  fairest  friend, 
I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day;  and  yours;  and  yours; 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  growing:  O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let  'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon!  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  229 

Or  Cytherea's  breath;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength  —  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids;  bold  oxlips  and 
The  crown  imperial;  lilies  of  all  kinds; 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one!" 

Primroses  are  dimorphic;  that  is,  on  the  same  species  we 
find  flowers  of  different  sorts.  These  are  complete,  but  in 
any  particular  flower  the  essential  organs  fail  of  adapta- 
tion to  each  other  —  the  style  in  one  too  long,  in  another 
too  short,  to  receive  pollen  from  the  stamens  of  its  own 
flower.  For  fertilization  such  flowers  are  absolutely  de- 
pendent upon  the  assistance  brought  by  insect  visitors. 
Perdita's  primrose  is  Primula  veris,  the  early  primrose, 
"that  takes  the  winds  of  March  with  beauty,"  and  dies 
ere  it  beholds  * '  bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength, ' '  and  it  is 
precisely  this  species  that  forms  the  basis  of  one  of  Dar- 
win's earliest  and  most  fruitful  studies  in  the  cross-fer- 
tilization of  flowers.  The  styles  in  one  form  of  the  early 
primrose  are  three  times  as  long  as  in  the  other,  the 
stigmas  differ,  and  the  co-adaption  of  the  parts  of  the 
different  flowers  extends  even  to  the  grains  of  pollen. 
Such  flowers  in  the  absence  of  insects  are  entirely  un- 
productive. Insects  are  rare  so  early  in  the  year,  and 
accordingly  many  of  the  primroses  die,  as  Perdita  says, 
1 '  unmarried. ' ' 

Of  course,  it  is  not  pretended  that  Shakespeare  knew 
anything  of  this ;  but  that  he  should  have  discovered  the 
fact  that  the  early  primrose  bears  little  or  no  seed,  and 
that  he  should  have  been  impressed  by  the  truth  that  this 
is  due  to  lack  of  fertilization,  is  wonderful.  This  cir- 


230  On  the  Campus 

cumstance  might  well  lead  to  the  suspicion  that  the  poet 
was  a  gardener. 

We  must  not  forget  to  notice,  too,  in  this  connection, 
that  carnations  —  i.e.,  pinks  —  are  remarkable  for  the 
great  number  of  their  varieties.  We  have,  if  I  may  so 
say,  pinks  of  every  color,  from  white  to  crimson,  even 
brown  it  is  said.  This  was  true  in  Shakespeare's  time, 
if  one  may  trust  Gerarde  again.  He  says,  ' '  A  great  and 
large  volume  would  not  suffice  to  write  of  every  one  at 
large  considering  how  infinite  they  are,  and  how  every 
year  the  climate  and  country  bringeth  forth  new  sorts 
and  such  as  have  not  heretofore  been  written  of. ' ' 

Another  beautiful  passage,  in  which  the  poet  has  un- 
wittingly hit  upon  scientific  truth,  is  found  in  Sonnet  V, 
the  last  ten  lines.  The  beauty  of  the  passage  as  a  whole 
is  so  remarkable  that  the  delicate  touches  in  particular 
lines  are  apt  to  be  overlooked : 

"For  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on 

To  hideous  winter  and  confounds  him  there; 
Sap  checked  with  frost  and  lusty  leaves  quite  gone, 

Beauty  o'ersnowed  and  bareness  everywhere: 
Then,  were  not  summer's  distillation  left, 
A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  wall  of  glass, 
Beauty's  effect  with  beauty  were  bereft, 

Nor  it  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was: 
But  flowers  distill 'd  though  they  with  winter  meet, 

Leese  but  their  show;  their  substance  still  lives  sweet." 

The  reference  here,  no  doubt,  is  to  a  perfume-bottle,  a 
vial  filled  with  the  essence  of  the  flower.1  This  is  the 

i  Sir  Sidney  Lee,  WorTcs  of  William  Shakespeare,  cites  here  Sid- 
ney's  Arcadia,  bk.  iii,  p.  246,  ed.  1674. 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  231 

figure.  But  the  picture  presents  the  confusion  of  life, 
checked  by  the  onset  of  winter,  and  is  curiously  exact. 
No  botanist  can  read  the  line, 

"A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass," 

and  not  recognize  the  exact  portrayal  of  the  living  vege- 
table cell.  The  living  protoplasm  is  a  liquid  prisoner, 
sure  enough,  hemmed  in  by  walls  transparent.  There 
could  be  no  more  striking  image.  And  when  in  herb  and 
tree,  in  every  living  plant,  the  summer's  work  is  ended 
and  "hideous  winter"  falls,  the  new  cells,  summer's  dis- 
tillation left,  do  in  all  perennials  actually  survive,  lest 
of  the  effect  of  beauty,  beauty  be  bereft.  There  is  no 
more  marvelous  picture  in  all  the  vegetal  world  than  that 
of  a  great  tree  with  all  its  myriad  cells,  in  summer  so 
filled  with  the  rush  of  life 's  activity  and  change  that  we 
might  hear  its  music,  in  autumn  sinking  to  quiescence, 
and  the  winter's  silent  chill  where  liquid  prisoners  sleep 
pent  in  walls  of  glass.  The  poet,  to  be  sure,  knew  noth- 
ing about  this ;  he  probably  wondered,  as  we  all  must  do, 
at  the  winter-sleep  of  ^plants;  but  after  all*  his  simiLe 
turns  out  to  be  correct ;  he  simply  prophesied  better  than 
he  knew.  The  only  natural  science  which  Shakespeare 
knew  was  gardening  —  if  that  may  be  called  a  science. 
His  Sonnets  are  supposed  to  have  been  written  about 
1590,  and  the  first  scientific  glimpse  of  the  real  "prisoner 
pent  in  walls  of  glass"  came  about  1670,  through  the 
lenses  of  Nehemiah  Grew,  a  Puritan  physicist  and  bot- 
anist. 

I  am  aware  that  it  is  said  by  some  that  in  a  study  such 
as  this,  we  are  apt  to  read  much  into  the  writings  of  our 


232  On  the  Campus 

author.  As  concerns  this  last  quotation,  such  is  con- 
fessedly the  case ;  but  the  intelligent  reader,  I  think,  will 
find  no  possible  basis  for  such  judgment  in  our  in- 
terpretation of  the  other  passages  we  have  studied.  The 
poet's  words  are  generally  unequivocal.  Of  course,  the 
language  is  poetical,  metaphoric,  but  the  metaphor  has 
reference  to  something  else;  the  description  is  not  the 
metaphor.  But,  in  fact,  should  we  expect  in  Shake- 
speare very  exact  or  complete  description  even  ?  Yet,  as 
it  now  appears,  the  description  is  often  marvelously  ex- 
act; always  definite  and  clear,  as  far  as  it  goes.  Really, 
the  artist  has  not  room  for  much ;  his  canvas  is  too  small. 
He  is  thus  limited  to  suggestion.  His  art,  indeed,  lies 
precisely  there.  The  deep  impressions  a  man  of  genius 
makes  upon  our  minds  lie  often,  if  not  always,  in  what 
he  does  not  say.  A  word  or  two  and  the  vision  rises, 
whether  in  nature  or  in  life,  a  passion  or  a  landscape. 
Take  the  broken  phrases  of  Ophelia  depicting  her  broken 
heart,  her  "no  more  but  so";  or  the  picture  of  the  win- 
ter woods  in  Sonnet  LXXIII : 

' '  That  time  of  year  thou  may  'st  in  me  behold 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin  'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. ' 

Does  any  one  pretend  that  we  are  reading  into  the  lines 
when  we  appreciate  the  marvelous  sorrow  of  the  one  pic- 
ture or  the  exquisite  truthfulness  and  splendor  of  the 
other? 

Shakespeare's  natural  eye  was  clear  indeed,  but  none 
the  less  he  seems  to  have  seen  everything  with  the  eye 


The  Botany  of  Shakespeare  233 

of  his  mind.  Faraday  so  saw  the  world  of  force,  Newton 
of  mathematical  law,  and  Tyndall's  "scientific  use  of 
the  imagination"  lies  in  the  same  direction. 

And  so  the  man  of  science  and  the  poet  have  much  in 
common.  Both  use  the  natural  world,  and  the  imagina- 
tion is  for  each  an  instrument  of  effort.  The  poet's  gen- 
eralization is  a  splendid  vision  in  a  world  ideal,  sug- 
gested, no  doubt,  by  what  is  actual,  and  liable  here  and 
there  to  coincide  with  truth;  the  generalization  of  the 
scientific  man  is  likewise  a  vision,  but  it  rests  upon  the 
actual,  upon  the  ascertained  fact  at  the  greatest  number 
of  points  possible,  and  disappoints  us  only  that  it  is  not 
everywhere  coincident.  The  poet  dreams  of  Atlantis, 
the  lost  continent,  the  islands  of  the  blest,  and  builds  us 
pictures  that  vanish  with  his  song ;  the  man  of  science  too 
beholds  the  continents  rise ;  scene  after  scene  he  likewise 
makes  to  pass  across  our  startled  vision ;  but  his  are  his- 
tory ;  his  tapestries  are  wrought  in  the  loom  of  time. 

The  poet  writes  the  book  of  Genesis,  with  the  herbs 
bringing  forth  fruit  after  their  kind ;  the  man  of  science 
figures  fossil  leaves  and  cones  and  fruit.  Only  at  the  last 
do  poetry  and  science  again  agree : 

1 '  The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself  — 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit  shall  dissolve, 
And  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded,  leave  not  a 
rack  behind ! '  ' 

And  when  the  man  of  science  gathers  all  his  data,  and 
collates  fact  with  fact,  and  builds  the  superstructure  of 
his  vision,  with  him,  too,  all  things  fade  and  vanish  in  the 
infinity  of  the  future. 


THE  FOLK-LOEE  OF  PLANTS 

In  the  first  place  let  it  be  conceded  that  the  folk-lore 
of  plants  would  seem  to  offer  little  of  value  in  the 
matter  of  modern  scientific  research.  Folk-lore  is  tra- 
dition, at  best ;  and  a  tradition  of  times  when  of  accurate 
knowledge,  of  science,  there  was  none.  It  is  a  far-away 
echo  of  the  earlier  voices  of  humanity  concerning  itself 
and  its  environment,  especially  concerning  the  phenom- 
ena of  the  living  world.  Folk-lore  is  the  survival  among 
us  in  our  adolescence  —  or  is  it  senescence  1  —  of  those 
fears  and  fancies,  guesses  and  beliefs,  which  tortured, 
amused,  or  comforted  our  racial  infancy  and  childhood. 
The  knowledge  of  such  things,  even  if  accurate,  can  be  of 
service  only  in  so  far  as  it  may  help  to  frame  a  picture 
of  the  mental  attitude,  mental  strength  of  men  of  the  far- 
off  past ;  only  as  it  may  help  us  to  conclusions  where  our 
inheritance  from  antiquity  perchance  more  profoundly 
affects  the  present.  If  we  know  a  man's  attitude  toward 
nature  we  are  in  position  better  to  understand,  to  appre- 
ciate his  literature,  his  art,  his  faith. 

The  blind  man,  on  recovering  sight,  saw  "men  as  trees 
walking,"  i.e.,  he  could  not  distinguish  between  men  and 
trees.  Primitive  men,  our  intellectual  ancestors,  waking 
to  consciousness,  seem  to  have  experienced  a  precisely 
similar  difficulty;  they  failed  to  differentiate  themselves 
from  the  world  about  them.  To  primitive  man,  every- 
thing had  personality;  all  forces  of  Nature,  of  course, 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants 235 

such  as  the  wind,  the  lightning,  the  fire ;  but  as  well  ob- 
jects animate  and  inanimate,  springs,  rivers,  rocks,  weap- 
ons, implements,  nor  less  plants  of  every  sort,  cereals, 
flowers,  fruit-trees,  trees  of  every  kind;  each  external 
object  was  to  him  quite  like  himself.  If  he  were  a  per- 
son, all  these  things  were  persons,  too;  they  had,  of 
course,  personal  power,  as  he  did;  certainly  they  had 
will;  they  might  be  entreated,  worshiped  even;  in  fact, 
were  worshiped  and  are  worshiped  even  to  this  day. 

Plants  are  very  curious  things;  they  live  indeed,  but 
they  are  so  very  silent,  mute ;  some  have  colored  sap,  red, 
purple ;  do  such  not  bleed  ?  Their  leaves  rustle,  whisper, 
and  sigh  in  the  gentle  airs  of  night,  shall  we  not  listen? 
There  is  ' '  a  sound  of  a  going  in  the  tops  of  the  mulberry 
trees, ' '  shall  we  not  bestir  ourselves  ?  Even  in  the  win- 
ter, the  giants  of  the  forest  stretch  their  great  arms; 
their  rubbing  branches  creak  and  cry,  shall  mortal  man 
not  fear?  Plants  are  very  curious  things. 

Plants,  moreover,  toward  men  were  generally  harm- 
less, if  not  altogether  friendly.  Fruits  and  grain  yielded 
nourishment  and  delight.  The  greater  plants  afforded 
shelter,  shade.  All  the  more  familiar  and  harmless  beasts 
likewise  were  beneficiaries,  dependent  upon  the  vegetable 
world.  Even  the  plants  less  directly  serviceable  to  man- 
kind served  the  brute  creation,  and  health  and  happiness 
seemed  bound  up  in  their  very  leaves ;  for  the  great  herds 
of  herbivorous  creatures  were  seldom  sick;  so  that  long 
ago  the  plant  world  attained  a  reputation  for  therapeu- 
tics, and  men  sought  and  found  relief  from  pain.  Nor 
was  this  all ;  plants  pierced  the  earth,  entered  the  secret 
chambers  of  the  mountain,  and  seemed  to  know  the  place 


236  On  the  Campus 

of  silver  and  all  hid  treasures.  Their  roots  had  power 
to  rend  the  rocks  and  to  pull  down  the  banks  of  streams, 
disclosing  thus  all  manner  of  bright  and  precious  things ; 
even  dainty  herbs  seemed  to  make  for  themselves  a  tri- 
umphal way  on  the  cliff-face  all  unsealed  by  human 
effort,  even  the  utmost.  Plants  were  accordingly  mirac- 
ulous, wonder-working ;  some  seemed  to  possess  the  secret 
of  immortal  life;  their  roots  touched  the  unseen  springs 
of  peace,  their  branches  drew  inspiration  from  the  view- 
less air,  their  fruits  failed  not  through  all  the  countless 
years.  How  unlike  the  uneasy  rudeness  of  human  life 
as  it  must  have  been  in  that  far  away  morning  when 
feeblest  creatures,  urging  forward  day  by  day,  on  and 
on,  along  humanity's  predestined  way,  pushed  to  a  fu- 
ture utterly  unknown  and  unsuspected;  ever  forward, 
along  the  blindest  of  roads  vexed  by  pain  and  strife,  o'er- 
hung  by  clouds  heavy  with  constant  fear,  perpetual 
boding,  incomprehensible  alarm ! 

Out  of  such  conditions  came  the  plant-lore  of  prehis- 
toric times.  What  men  thought  about  plants  determined 
somewhat  their  own  behavior,  made  their  history,  and 
in  so  far  affected  ours. 

The  information  we  have  in  reference  to  all  these  mat- 
ters is  to  some  extent,  of  course,  merely  a  matter  of  con- 
jecture, nevertheless  there  are  several  lines  along  which 
real  intelligence  may  come.  In  the  first  place,  as  might 
be  suspected,  literature,  from  earliest  to  latest,  touches 
it.  Again,  the  names  of  plants  often  bring  with  them  a 
glimpse  of  their  primal  significance;  this  is  especially 
true  of  common  plant-names  among  the  people  of  western 
Europe.  But,  more  interesting  than  all,  many  very 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants  237 

ancient  bits  of  plant-lore  are  still  current,  a  matter  of 
practical  experience  among  men.  Superstitions,  survi- 
vals, hold-overs  are  these,  much  as  old  phraseology  still 
lingers  in  our  documents,  legal,  theological,  and  other. 

It  is  impossible,  of  course,  in  a  brief  paper  such  as  this 
to  treat  the  subject  with  completeness;  volumes  would 
be,  have  been,  necessary  for  that.  I  may  instead  in  the 
few  minutes  assigned  me  here,  be  permitted  to  cite  just 
a  few  instances  which  may  illustrate  the  theme,  and  in- 
dicate somewhat  the  far-reaching  vistas  which  it  opens 
to  curious  and  reflective  minds.  Let  us  be  content,  since 
perhaps  the  vista  is  all  that  any  subject  may  afford. 

One  of  the  most  curious  of  these  old-time  notions  sug- 
gests that  certain  herbs  have  power  to  discover  things 
out  of  sight,  or  naturally  hidden.  Often  these  plants  are 
of  the  smallest  and  feeblest.  Thus  the  Saarifraga,  saxi- 
frage, was  evidently  a  rock-breaker  among  the  Romans 
when  first  they  framed  the  name;  doubtless  to  these 
practical  people  a  tradition  merely,  since  similar  plants 
are  burdened  with  equal  functions  in  the  traditions  of 
nearly  all  Indo-European  peoples.  In  that  age  para- 
disiacal, when  the  number  of  thieves  was  limited  to  forty, 
the  mere  pronouncing  of  a  word,  the  name  of  a  little 
flowering  plant,  accomplished  wonders,  and  became  the 
"open  sesame"  to  countless  treasures.  The  sesamum 
seed  is  a  little  thing,  not  much  bigger  than  a  grain  of 
mustard,  or  the  faith  for  which  that  stands,  and  yet  the 
tradition  of  its  energy  is  the  inheritance  of  every  lan- 
guage. "Wit  and  good  breeding,"  says  a  recent  news- 
paper writer,  "are  the  open  sesame  to  the  highest  social 
circles  in  Boston."  Doubtless  no  higher  estimate  has 


238  On  the  Campus 

ever  been  suggested  to  indicate  the  power  of  these  magic 
syllables. 

There  are  many  other  plants  to  which  age-long  prac- 
tice and  tradition  assign  a  similar  virtue.  The  common 
hazel  has  a  reputation  for  discovery  transcending  sesame. 
It  has  also  other  virtues.  One  day  in  Switzerland  I  saw 
a  clumsily  shapen  cross  in  a  shop-window,  fastened 
against  the  window  pane.  I  heeded  it  little  until  a  sec- 
ond glance  showed  that  it  was  the  hazel.  Knowing  the 
lore  of  the  little  tree  I  made  inquiry  and  learned,  in  fact, 
that  throughout  southern  Germany  hazel  rods,  especially 
in  form  of  a  cross,  are  good  protectors  against  lightning, 
since  on  their  flight  into  Egypt,  the  Holy  Family  found 
a  hazel  bush  an  efficient  refuge  in  the  time  of  storm. 
But  the  cross  is  a  baptized  hazel,  so  to  say.  The  plant 
was  famous  long  before  Christianity  carried  its  emblem 
to  any  part  of  Europe,  or  even  its  founder  had  lent  the 
cross  its  present  honor.  The  hazel  was  a  lightning  plant, 
sacred  to  Thor,  as  was  the  ash,  and  hazel  and  ash  bloom 
together  in  many  an  ancient  legend.  Sometimes  one, 
sometimes  the  other  has  precedence.  For  thousands  of 
years  the  rod  has  been  the  symbol  of  authority ;  was  per- 
haps the  original  scepter,  probably  because  of  its  con- 
venience as  an  instrument  of  enforcement.  By  means  of 
a  rod  the  wonders  were  done  in  Egypt;  but  according  to 
Hebrew  tradition  Aaron's  rod  that  budded  was  an  al- 
mond switch.  I  am  in  doubt  about  this,  when  I  read  that 
in  the  old  languages  the  words  for  almond  and  hazel 
are  the  same.  Jacob's  trick-rods  were  hazel,  as  it  ap- 
pears, and  hazel  was  and  is  the  charmed  wood  of  our 
own  ancestral  peoples.  The  divining  rod,  which  John 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants  239 

Fiske  discusses  at  large,  and  believes  the  symbol  of  light- 
ning, has  come  down  to  us,  preferably  a  hazel ;  although 
I  regret  to  say  that  I  have  seen  box-elder  used  instead. 
I  say  it  has  come  down  to  our  own  times.  As  a  child  I 
saw  it  used  in  Henry  county ;  in  Kansas  I  saw  it  in  1870. 
It  was  reported  in  use  in  this  county  (Johnson)  to  dis- 
cover subterranean  veins  of  water,  water-couches  we 
should  now  say,  as  late  as  1880,  and  no  doubt  since,  al- 
though I  have  not  taken  trouble  to  enquire.  Fifty  years 
ago  men  found  water  almost  anywhere  on  the  undrained 
prairie  by  digging  a  hole  ten  or  fifteen  feet  deep,  so  that 
in  those  days  the  water-witch,  so-called,  was  almost  uni- 
formly successful  in  his  time-worn  vocation.  To-day 
when  for  full  supply  the  farmer  must  penetrate  the 
rocks,  sinking  his  pipes  from  a  few  hundred  to  a  few 
thousand  feet,  the  diviner  has  grown  silent;  who  could 
expect  the  hazel  sensitive  to  depths  like  that?  The  old 
forked  stick  has  helped  the  kitchen  fire,  and  what  geology 
has  to  say  about  deep-lying  St.  Peter's  sands  will  soon, 
let  us  hope,  make  all  men  wonder  that  twirling  thumbs 
and  solemn  eyes  had  ever  even  claimed  the  attention  of 
men  of  sense.  So  deep-seated  was  the  belief  in  the  power 
of  the  hazel  that  when  white  men  came  to  North  America 
and  found  here  a  splendid  bush  with  the  strange  habit 
of  postfoliar  autumnal  blooming,  they  forthwith  as- 
sumed this  the  omen  of  some  added  but  mysterious  vir- 
tue, dubbed  our  beautiful  American  shrub  the  witch- 
hazel,  and  under  this  singular  title  it  blooms  at  this  hour 
here  in  Iowa  City. 

But  the  folk-lore  of  the  hazel  would  take  all  our  time. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  for  variety's  sake  other  woody 


240  On  the  Campus 

species  appear  sometimes  to  have  shared  these  honors. 
The  ash  has  been  already  mentioned;  its  fame,  as  we 
know,  fills  the  myths  and  legends  of  the  northern  world. 
The  oak  belonged  to  Thor,  and  in  all  Aryan  tradition  as 
well,  it  is  the  lightning  tree.  "It  was  the  law  of  the 
Ostrogoths  that  in  the  forest  one  might  hew  what  tree 
he  would,  save  only  the  oak  and  the  hazel,"  and  we  are 
all  familiar  with  the  stories  of  sacred  oaks  in  Britain. 
Many  very  ancient  trees  in  England,  France,  and  Spain 
owe  their  presence  among  us  to  this  lingering  supersti- 
tion which  protects  the  tree  of  Thor  and  Jove,  and  even 
of  Jehovah,  if  we  rightly  read  our  much-forgotten  bibles. 

Within  a  few  days  we  shall  be  hanging  all  our  win- 
dows with  evergreen,  mistletoe  in  preference,  in  honor, 
we  say,  of  Christmas.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  mistletoe  is 
far  enough  from  Christmas;  has  not  even,  like  the  hazel, 
been  baptized.  Its  use  is  wholly  pagan  and  dates  from 
the  same  background  of  human  history  from  which  come 
not  superstitions  only  but  a  thousand  things  we  most 
esteem.  Our  fruits  and  grains  are  of  such  far-off  an- 
tiquity; but  the  mistletoe  was  the  friend  of  man  the 
grain-user;  when  duly  placed,  it  saved  him  from  light- 
ning, from  witchcraft,  which  was  worse,  and  from  dis- 
ease, and  especially  saved  his  stores  of  seeds  and  wheat 
from  fire.  When  the  wheat  was  gathered,  a  sprig  of 
mistletoe  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  heap.  Mistle- 
toe means  mist-rod;  it  is  an  evergreen  parasite  on  the 
oak  and  hence  doubly  sacred;  for  the  oak,  and  for  the 
incomprehensible  mystery  of  its  life.  The  Germans  call 
it  donnerbesen,  the  broom  of  thunder. 

Many  another  tree  might  lend  itself  here  to  fanciful 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants 241 

discourse  did  time  and  your  patience  permit;  the  white 
thorn  with  its  dream  of  death,  and  the  cypress  with  its 
melancholy  shadows;  old,  both  of  them,  as  the  trans- 
mitted speech  of  men;  and  to-day  white  are  the  lilies 
above  the  coffined  dead,  and  dark  the  shadows  of  the 
cypress-trees,  so  that  Whittier  could  say: 

"Oh  well  for  him  whose  faith  yet  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  the  cypress  trees. " 

Christianity,  of  course,  as  already  intimated,  touches 
lore  of  every  sort,  plant-lore  more  surprisingly  because 
it  was  so  much  more  extensive.  The  sunlight  of  the  life 
of  Christ  is  on  all  the  fields.  The  lilies  are  more  wonder- 
ful since  he  taught  us  how  to  esteem  them,  although  we 
have  waited  till  this  good  hour  to  obey  his  injunction 
when  he  bids  us  consider  how  they  grow.  His  lilies  may 
not  have  been  lilies;  but  the  Greek  —  the  Persian  — 
knew  lilies,  if  the  Hebrew  did  not,  and  the  Greek 's  artis- 
tic touch  lingers  when  we  say  that ' '  In  the  beauty  of  the 
lilies  Christ  was  born  — ."  I  believe,  however,  that 
Buddha's  lotus,  the  water  lily,  figures  here. 

As  a  further  index  of  the  spread  of  Christianity,  we 
may  note  that  crucifixion-thorns  are  in  all  lands.  Away 
down  on  the  Mexican  desert  I  found  an  outcast  plant, 
the  thorn  of  the  passion,  as  the  natives  think.  It 
grows  there  leafless  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year, 
and  comes  into  service,  strangely  enough,  when  fanatic 
devotees  lash  themselves  as  penitent es.  All  over  Cali- 
fornia, men  cultivate  the  passion-flower,  with  the  very 
nails  present,  as  it  would  appear,  surmounting  the  crown 
of  spines !  Not  far  are  we  yet  from  the  mental  attitude 


242  On  the  Campus 

of  our  forebears.  We  love  fable  and  fancy,  and  believe 
the  miraculous.  Lack  of  truth  is  the  vice  of  the  race. 
In  my  attempt  to  do  the  work  of  science  I  find  it  ex- 
tremely hard  to  tell  the  truth,  to  distinguish  between 
what  I  think  is  true  from  what  is  true.  The  man  on  the 
witness  stand  tells  what  he  thinks  is  true. 

But  the  folk-lore  of  plants  gives  everywhere  abundant 
instances  of  the  impress  of  Christianity,  and  especially  of 
what  might  be  called  biographic  Christianity.  The  sim- 
ple peoples  of  the  northern  world  were  taught  the  lives 
of  the  saints;  the  story  of  Mary,  and  the  rest;  and  all 
the  flowers  of  the  field  reflect  the  fact.  The  maiden  hair 
is  our  lady's  hair.  We  have  lady's  bedstraw,  lady's 
thistle,  lady's  tresses,  lady's  thimble  and  lady's  mantle, 
lady's  comb,  lady's  looking-glass  and  cushion.  While 
the  roses  are  all  hers,  and  even  the  threaded  beads,  upon 
the  weary  fingers  of  that  simple  kneeling  creature  on 
the  hard  floor  of  the  cathedral,  yonder,  who  can  pray 
but  who  can  do  no  more  —  even  the  threaded  beads  are 
the  rosary  of  her  faith. 

Saint  John,  i.e.,  John  the  Baptist,  has  plenty  of  com- 
memoration. The  karob,  once  part  of  the  prophet's 
meagre  diet,  is  St.  John's  bread.  St.  John's-wort  is  a 
beautiful  family  of  flowers,  the  name  transferred  here  to 
our  woodland  meadows;  even  currants  are  in  Germany 
Johannesb eeren  and  Artemisia  is  the  proto-baptist's 
beard !  Veronica  is  the  name  of  our  little  speedwell,  and 
both  these  names  bring  memories.  St.  Peter 's-wort  is  a 
primrose ;  a  bunch  of  keys ;  in  German,  himmelschliissel. 

A  great  many  of  the  popular  names  of  plants  in  all 
countries  are  attended  by  legends ;  each  name  comes  from 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants  243 

generation  to  generation  accompanied  with  an  explana- 
tion, a  story,  often  interesting  enough,  that  should  enable 
us  to  understand  the  reasonableness  of  the  appellation. 
For  such  stories  those  interested  are  directed  to  the  wide 
literature  of  the  present  subject. 

I  referred  in  the  outset  to  the  fact  that  names  in 
themselves  sometimes  bring  curious  information.  A  re- 
markable illustration  of  this  is  found  in  the  survival  to- 
day of  traces  of  the  ancient  doctrine  of  signatures.  In 
their  despair  at  rightly  selecting  the  proper  herbs  for 
the  recovery  of  the  sick  —  for  we  must  recall  that  in  all 
ages  the  leaves  of  the  tree  were  "for  the  healing  of  the 
nations, "  —  in  the  effort  to  fit  the  remedy  to  the  trouble, 
some  poetic  genius  suggested  that  it  was  irreverent  to 
suppose  that  God  might  have  created  herbs  expressly  to 
cure  people  and  yet  have  left  his  children  entirely  with- 
out any  means,  save  experiment,  for  identification.  The 
suggestion  was  that  the  form  of  the  plant  or  its  leaf 
was  an  index  to  its  specific  value,  the  big  "  S ! "  on  the 
prescription,  the  signature  or  direction  of  the  Creator 
guiding  poor  mortals  to  relief  from  pain.  This  idea  was 
once  thought  to  have  come  out  of  the  dark  ages,  so- 
called,  or  in  the  middle  ages  when  men  were  attempting 
to  discover  the  identity  of  plants  referred  to  in  Greek 
medical  works;  but  Indians  and  Chinamen  have  the 
same  notion,  so  the  fancy  must  be  old.  At  any  rate  the 
idea  was  accepted  and  lingers  yet  among  us.  We  have 
liverwort  and  spleenwort  and  lungwort  and  eyewort  or 
eyebright,  moneywort  —  all  of  us  seek  to  use  that  — 
heart's  ease,  etc.  There  is  no  end  to  it.  All  our  phar- 
macopeia took  origin  in  the  traditions  of  empiricism,  the 


244  On  the  Campus 

credulity  of  the  ignorant,  and  much  of  it  persists  now 
under  the  same  conditions.  There  are  people  in  Iowa 
who  prefer  to  medicate  themselves  and  their  children 
with  decoctions  framed  in  the  name  of  some  wild  ' '  medi- 
cine man, ' '  rather  than  trust  to  the  wisdom  and  science 
of  their  enlightened  neighbors,  the  physicians.  Look  at 
the  shelves  of  your  shops,  Indian  remedies,  Cherokee 
medicines,  St.  Jacob's  oil,  and  tell  me  if  we  have  jour- 
neyed far  along  the  corridors  of  time.  Science  has  great 
difficulty  in  discarding  these  old  traditions.  Year  by 
year  the  plant  list  in  the  pharmacopeia  is  reduced.  I 
have,  perhaps,  in  my  herbarium  three  hundred  or  four 
hundred  medicinal  plants;  I  believe  that  of  these  at 
least  ninety-five  per  cent  have  no  possible  therapeutic 
value. 

But  there  is  still  another  phase  of  plant-lore  that 
seems  ineradicable  among  us.  I  refer  to  that  which  re- 
lates the  prosperity  of  vegetables  to  the  influence  of  the 
moon  and  the  stars,  particularly  the  moon,  as  that  lum- 
inary is  evidently  so  much  larger.  I  suppose  there  are 
men  in  this  city  to-day  who  in  all  their  gardening  ob- 
serve the  changes  of  the  moon.  Tylor  says  that  "in 
days  gone  by,  neither  sowing,  planting,  nor  grafting  was 
ever  undertaken  without  scrupulous  attention  to  the  wax- 
ing or  waning  of  the  moon." 

"Sow  peas  and  beans  in  the  wane  of  the  moon; 
Who  soweth  them  sooner,  he  soweth  too  soon, 
That  they  with  the  planet  may  rest  and  rise 
And  flourish  in  bearing  most  plentiful-wise." 

In  our  boyhood  days  potatoes  planted  in  the  dark  of 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants  245 

the  moon  (or  was  it  in  the  light?)  were  sure  to  rot  in 
the  ground.  I  remember  that  my  father  once,  in  defi- 
ance of  advice,  planted,  and  in  the  cold  rains  that  fol- 
lowed for  some  weeks,  lost  his  labor,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  his  more  weather-wise  neighbors. 

Even  intelligent  men  are  still  under  this  spell,  par- 
ticularly in  reference  to  beans,,  which  as  we  all  know, 
refuse  always  to  stay  planted,  but  must  needs  rise  forth- 
with in  order  to  further  vegetative  attainment.  A  min- 
ister said  to  me  not  long  since :  "Do  you  not  think  the 
moon  has  something  to  do  with  it?  Think  how  it  pulls 
the  waters  of  the  ocean ;  don 't  you  believe  it  might  help 
the  beans  and  potatoes  some?"  It  has  even  been  sug- 
gested that  the  Agricultural  Department  at  Washington 
undertake  experiment  along  these  lines  to  ascertain 
whether  or  not  there  be  any  grain  of  truth  in  a  popular 
belief  so  firmly  rooted.  Of  course,  in  traditional  medi- 
cine, all  kinds  of  herbs  vary  in  curative  properties  ac- 
cording to  the  phase  of  the  moon  under  which  the  mate- 
rial is  assembled.  ' '  Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  influence 
of  the  Pleiades  or  loose  the  bands  of  Orion?"  What 
means  that  ancient  shining  distich? 

It  is  perhaps  hardly  necessary  to  refer  now  to  the 
abundant  plant-lore  revealed  in  the  Greek  and  Latin 
classics.  Much  of  it,  as  already  suggested,  is  the  same 
as  that  of  the  northern  nations;  either  the  same  because 
both  derive  from  the  same  prehistoric  source,  or  in  a  few 
instances,  perchance,  because  our  fathers  have  adopted 
classic  traditions.  We  shall,  of  course,  always  bear  in 
mind  that  the  lore  in  any  case  was  long  established  before 


246  On  the  Campus 

literature  could  touch,  it :  literature  simply  records  what 
is. 

Sacred  trees  and  flowers  lend  their  beauty  to  nearly 
all  the  legends  of  ancient  Greece.  Everybody  knows 
how  the  laurel  was  sacred  to  Apollo. 

"Phoebus  sitting  one  day  in  the  laurel  tree's  shade 
Was  reminded  of  Daphne  of  whom  it  was  made, 
For  the  god  being  one  day  too  warm  in  his  wooing 
She  took  to  the  tree  to  escape  his  pursuing," 

while 

"Daphne  before  she  was  happily  treeified 
Over  all  other  blossoms  the  lily  had  deified. " 

Laurel  leaves  and  berries  crowned  the  victors  in  those 
old-time  contests  where  art  and  wit  and  beauty  vied; 
and  still  in  the  centuries  since,  men  have  won  laurels  in 
every  honorable  achievement,  especially  where  learning 
and  scholarship  might  claim  the  prize.  Would  that  the 
tree  were  native  to  these  newer  lands  and  fields,  and  that 
fortune  might  find  occasion  once  again  for  its  classic 
use !  How  much  more  elegant  the  baccalaureate  wreath 
than  the  colored  millinery  we  derive,  not  inherit,  from 
the  semi-barbarian  of  the  dark  ages,  frail  imitations  of 
the  trappings  of  the  Caesars.  The  savage  puts  on  paint 
and  feathers;  the  sons  and  daughters  of  wisdom  bear 
aniline-tinted  tassels  and  ribbons. 

The  laurel  was  sacred  to  Apollo,  but  indeed  all  the 
flowers  were  sacred  to  the  college  of  the  gods.  To  Juno 
belonged  the  anemone,  the  lily,  the  asphodel,  the  poppy, 
and  the  violet ;  the  pink  to  Zeus,  the  narcissus  to  Proser- 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants  247 

pina ;  to  Diana  all  the  wild  flowers  that  modern  students 
love  —  those  miracles  of  nature,  the  triumph  of  the  ages, 
that  fill  the  world  unseen  with  color  and  perfume,  and 
our  hearts  with  startled  but  appreciative  wonder.  What 
must  have  been  the  vision  of  those  old-time  men  who  saw 
the  personification  of  pure  beauty,  clear  and  cold  as  the 
silver  circlet  of  the  rising  moon,  a  maiden  lithe,  touching 
with  trackless  footsteps  the  otherwise  untrodden  wild, 
where  by  murmuring  stream  the  flowers  of  the  woodland 
opened  unabashed  their  gentle  eyes  of  glorious  delicacy 
and  beauty.  Diana  and  the  wild  flowers  undisturbed; 
fairest  picture  in  the  gallery  of  the  human  spirit ! 

I  have  already  mentioned  the  flowers  of  the  Orient,  I 
may  refer  again  to  Buddha  and  his  lotus,  the  lotus  older 
than  Buddha,  old  as  the  monumental  valley  of  the  im- 
memorial Nile,  where  thousands  of  years  ere  Buddha  sat 
and  dreamed  for  India,  Egyptian  priests  carried  the 
rose-tinted  water-lily  in  their  processions  that  signified 
the  march  of  man  beyond  the  tomb.  Who  shall  tell  the 
dreamy  legends  of  the  lotus,  languid,  floating  on  the 
silent  waters ;  its  fruit  could  make  the  souls  of  those  who 
ate  it  more  blessed  than  the  care-free  gods.  Buddha  in 
terrestrial  birth  rose  from  the  lotus  bloom,  the  beauty 
of  the  lily. 

The  asclepias,  which  still  lingers  in  our  pharmacopeia 
and  blooms  each  recurring  autumn  by  Iowa  streams,  has 
a  history  stranger  still.  Here  is  the  tree  of  life  that 
grew  in  paradise,  untouched  of  men.  Its  milky  juice 
brings  immortality;  itself  can  never  fade.  The  vedas 
call  it  soma  and  sing  its  praise : 


248  On  the  Campus 

"We've  quaffed  the  soma  bright 
And  are  immortal  grown, 
We've  entered  into  light 
And  all  the  gods  have  known; 
What  mortal  now  can  harm 
Or  foeman  vex  us  more? 
Through  thee,  beyond  alarm 
Immortal  god,  we  soar. ' '  i 

We  started  out  in  this  discussion  with,  the  concept 
that  much  folk-lore  originated  in  the  thought  entertained 
by  prehistoric  men  that  plants  were  not  unlike  them- 
selves ;  all  the  more  wonderful  powers  since  attributed  to 
flowers  and  trees  would  seem  to  confirm  that  view.  The 
wonder-working  twig  or  bloom  or  fruit  is  endowed  with 
personality,  may  confer  pain  or  joy,  bring  bane  or  bless- 
ing, even  the  penalties  or  blessing  of  the  Lord. 

Just  how  far  we  have  left  these  idle  though  ofttimes 
poetic  fancies  my  hearers  may  judge  if  I  cite  a  little 
of  the  plant  lore  of  the  present. 

Gustave  Theodore  Fechner,2  the  philosopher  of  Leip- 
sic,  died  in  1887.  He  is  regarded  as  the  founder  of 
scientific  psychology,  Wundt  and  Paulsen  and  Lasswitz 
call  him  master.  In  his  earliest  book,  Nanna,  Fechner 
tells  of  plants.  He  holds  that  plants  are  conscious, 
"they  spread  their  organs  abroad;  they  drink  in  light 
and  air  with  their  leaves, ' '  and  ' '  feel  their  rootlets  draw 
the  sap"  —  they  "enjoy  something  like  what  we  call 
pleasure  in  ourselves."  "How  scanty  and  scattered 

1  Translated  by  Sir  William  Jones;  The  Foils-lore  of  Plants,  by 
T.  F.  Thiselton  Dyer,  N.  Y.,  1889,  p.  246. 

2  These  notes  of  Fechner  are  from  James,  A  Pluralistic  Uni- 
verse, Lecture  IV- 


The  Folk-lore  of  Plants  249 

would  sensation  be,  if  the  feeling-life  of  plants  were 
blotted  from  existence "  —  Fechner  goes  farther  still: 
he  finds  consciousness  in  all  things  inanimate  as  well  as 
living;  even  the  planet  lives  again  and  is  conscious,  and 
in  the  nineteenth  century  the  goddess  Gaia  or  Terra  re- 
turns again  unto  her  own.  Listen  then  to  Fechner  as 
translated  by  the  marvelously  open-minded  Professor 
James: 

' '  On  a  certain  spring  morning  I  went  out  to  walk.  The 
fields  were  green,  the  birds  sang,  the  smoke  was  rising 
and  here  and  there  a  man  appeared ;  a  light  as  of  trans- 
figuration lay  on  all  things.  It  was  only  a  little  bit  of 
earth ;  it  was  only  one  moment  of  her  existence ;  and  yet 
as  my  look  embraced  her  more  and  more  it  seemed  to  me 
not  only  so  beautiful  an  idea  but  so  true  and  clear  a 
fact  that  she  is  an  angel,  an  angel  so  rich  and  fresh  and 
flower-like  and  yet  going  her  round  in  the  skies  so  firmly 
and  so  at  one  with  herself,  turning  her  whole  living  face 
to  heaven  and  carrying  me  along  with  her  into  that  heav- 
en that"  I  asked  myself  how  thinking  men  could  ever 
have  deemed  the  earth  a  clod! 

Is  consciousness  then  a  property  of  universal  matter? 
Truly  when  the  shaping  fancies  of  our  racial  morning 
begin  to  blend  with  modern  learning  and  to  echo  in  our 
most  recent  university  halls,  it  is  time  to  give  some  heed  at 
least,  to  the  folk-lore  of  the  plants.  But,  friends,  there 
is  nothing  in  it :  is  it  at  all  worth  your  time  and  mine  ? 


SIGMA  XI 

It  becomes  my  very  pleasant  duty  this  evening  to  bid 
you  formal  welcome  to  the  associations  and  privileges  of 
the  brotherhood  known  as  the  Sigma  Xi.  In  the  dis- 
charge of  this  duty  I  am  also  to  set  before  you  very 
briefly  the  aims  and  purposes  of  this  organization  and  to 
encourage  you  to  yet  more  serious  and  earnest  effort  in 
fields  of  original  research  such  as  the  Sigma  Xi  is  set  to 
foster.  I  bid  you  welcome  to  a  goodly  company.  Sigma 
Xi  was  organized  in  1886;  it  has  ever  been  very  exclu- 
sive, but  now  includes  in  its  membership  all  the  prin- 
cipal scientific  men  of  the  country,  and  has  a  chapter  in 
every  prominent  university  in  the  United  States.  Its 
motto  is  STTOV&UV  Hwu>v£s,  companions  in  research,  those 
who  strive  together  in  study.  The  objects  of  the  society 
may  not  be  better  set  forth  than  in  Article  I,  Section  2  of 
the  constitution : 

' '  The  object  of  this  Society  shall  be  to  encourage  origi- 
nal investigation  in  science,  pure  and  applied ;  by  meet- 
ing for  the  discussion  of  scientific  subjects;  by  the  pub- 
lication of  such  scientific  matter  as  may  be  desirable ;  by 
establishing  fraternal  relations  among  investigators  in 
the  scientific  centers;  and  by  the  granting  of  the  privi- 
lege of  membership  to  such  students  as  have  during  their 
college  course  given  special  promise  of  future  achieve- 
ment.'' 

The  conditions  of  membership  are,  as  you  observe,  pe- 


Sigma  Xi  I  251 


culiar.  They  rest  not  upon  university  credits,  not  upon 
courses  of  study  as  such,  least  of  all  upon  grades  or 
standings  so-called,  carried  out  to  any  perfection  of 
decimal  refinement,  but  upon  the  one  solitary  condition 
that  in  your  work  in  the  University,  your  scientific  work, 
you  have  in  the  judgment  of  your  instructors  given 
promise  of  being  able  presently  to  guide  your  own  work 
yourselves;  to  take  up  and  carry  forward  on  your  own 
account  some  investigation,  some  problem  which  in  its 
completion  or  solution  shall  be  a  contribution  to  the  sum 
of  human  knowledge.  It  is  our  confidence  in  your  ability 
and  willingness  to  do  this  thing  that  has  brought  us  here 
face  to  face  this  evening. 

The  membership  in  Sigma  Xi  is  then  conditioned  upon 
presumed  ability  to  enter  upon  and  carry  forward  origi- 
nal scientific  research.  Such  ability,  though  not  always 
a  matter  of  record  on  the  books  of  schools  and  univer- 
sities, does  nevertheless,  for  its  successful  exercise,  re- 
quire, in  addition  to  natural  endowment,  certain  high 
attainments  of  scholarship  and  the  observance  of  peculiar 
definite  conditions  in  themselves  sufficiently  rigorous  and 
imperative.  Research-work  is  not  for  the  sluggish  nor 
for  the  ill-informed.  No  really  valuable  effort  to  enlarge 
our  knowledge  is  accomplished  without  long  preparation 
and  patient  unwearying  toil.  The  very  first  prerequisite 
is  knowledge,  knowledge  of  what  has  been  done  by  others, 
especially  in  the  field  selected.  This,  of  course,  for  many 
reasons,  not  the  least  important  of  which  is  simply  self- 
protection.  Surely  no  one  cares  to  take  up  a  line  of  in- 
vestigation simply  to  repeat  or  duplicate  the  observa- 
tions and  experiences  of  another,  unless,  perhaps,  by  im- 


252  On  the  Campus 

proved  appliances,  or  facilities,  or  opportunity  he  is  rea- 
sonably certain  that  he  can  add  materially  to  the  sum  of 
facts  already  known.  For  instance,  much  is  known  con- 
cerning the  behavior  of  the  dividing  nucleus  in  the  cells 
of  the  higher  plants :  no  one  desires  to  repeat  the  work  of 
investigators  in  this  field  unless  some  new  reagent,  some 
new  method  of  treatment,  some  new  lens  may  give  prom- 
ise of  affording  new  light  in  fields  already  well  explored. 
The  would-be  investigator  must  know  the  existing  state 
of  knowledge  if  he  would  not  in  large  measure  waste  his 
time  and  lose  his  pains. 

But  there  is  still  another  demand  for  the  widest  kind 
of  knowledge;  the  research  student  must  know  his  sub- 
ject thoroughly  in  order  wisely  to  select,  in  order  to  ren- 
der his  contribution  in  the  highest  degree  useful  to  the 
particular  science  he  affects  and  so  to  the  science  of  the 
world.  A  man  has  been  known  to  spend  a  life-time  upon 
a  problem  which  when  solved  forwards  in  no  least  par- 
ticular the  general  purpose  and  sweep  of  the  science,  nor 
aids  in  any  way  whatever  his  fellow-workers  in  that  par- 
ticular field.  There  stands  in  my  library  a  volume  of 
more  than  a  thousand  closely  printed  quarto  pages.  It 
represents  the  entire  life-work  of  a  most  diligent  and 
painstaking  student;  yet  it  is  all  practically  labor  taken 
in  vain.  It  attempts  to  record  the  first  naming  of  every 
known  plant  in  all  recorded  literature  —  the  chronologi- 
cal history  of  plants.  Now  the  volume  is  a  mass  of 
curious  erudition,  a  lore  culled  from  all  the  languages 
ever  written  among  men,  yet  to-day  no  one  every  quotes 
that  volume,  no  one  seems  ever  to  find  occasion  to  refer 
either  to  the  author  or  his  work,  his  labor  brings  no 


Sigma  Xi  I  253 


smallest  comfort  or  assistance  to  any  naturalist  in  any 
field.  The  author  in  his  desire  for  originality  eschewed 
the  science  of  his  time  and  is  said  to  have  even  kept 
secret  his  self-imposed  task  until  near  the  close  of  a  long 
life  when  fear  lest  his  work  be  left  incomplete  induced 
the  publication  of  his  purpose.  Needless  to  say  that  is 
not  the  true  spirit  of  research.  The  student  must  ex- 
ercise good  judgment,  and  this  exercise  ought  to  have 
high  regard  for  the  work  of  others  as  they  toil  about  him. 
In  fact  he  should  feel  constantly  the  kindliest  sympathy 
with  all  who  have  ever  garnered  in  his  field  before;  he 
must  be  able  to  appreciate  their  successes  as  well  as  to 
discover  their  difficulties  and  failures.  His  work  should 
be  in  the  main  constructive,  and  while  it  may  not  infre- 
quently be  necessary  to  recast  or  revise  the  conclusions 
of  those  who  have  gone  before  us,  yet  we  can  never 
wholly  ignore  them.  In  a  most  real  and  reverent  sense 
we  may  always  say :  * '  Other  foundation  can  no  man  lay 
than  that  which  is  laid/' 

Of  course,  I  would  not  have  the  investigator  here  too 
conservative ;  he  must  be  untrammelled ;  he  must  be  per- 
fectly free.  Above  all,  he  must  not,  he  dare  not  imitate. 
That  which  every  man  can  do  best  in  this  world  no  other 
man  can  do  quite  so  well,  such  is  the  law  of  natural  gifts. 
We  must  appreciate  our  fellow-worker  but  we  dare  not 
copy  him.  If  we  do  we  are  apt  to  gain  but  half  his 
strength  and  to  lose  our  own  entirely.  Nevertheless  the 
true  laborer  along  the  lines  suggested  by  Sigma  Xi  must 
know  and  know  with  sympathy. 

But  Sigma  Xi  demands  yet  other  qualifications  of 
those  who  would  worthily  bear  the  name.  It  was  re- 


254  On  the  Campus 

quired  of  the  candidate  for  initiation  into  the  Eleusinian 
mysteries  of  old  that  he  place  himself  for  days  under 
certain  definite  restraints,  he  must  for  days  exercise  per- 
fect self-control.  Such  self-restraint  and  of  yet  higher 
order  is  required  to-day  of  every  scientific  worker.  It  is 
hard,  very  hard,  to  toil  in  silence,  without  reward,  with- 
out applause,  without  approval  even;  yet  just  such  toil 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  every  real  piece  of  successful  work. 
The  inexperienced  student  is  apt  to  be  eager  to  bring  his 
work  to  light.  He  fears,  perchance,  that  another  may 
prevent  him,  preclude  him,  and  it  is  sometimes  very  try- 
ing to  normal  patience  to  quietly  labor  on  to  the  satisfac- 
tory solution  of  our  problem  when  of  necessity  time  is 
likely  an  all-important  factor.  Neither  Wallace  nor  Dar- 
win ever  published  a  preliminary  report.  It  is  said  that 
the  note-books  of  Mr.  Darwin  for  the  single  work,  the 
Descent  of  Man,  would  be  reckoned  a  small  library  and 
opposite  a  great  many  of  these  manuscript  notes  and 
memoranda  copied  out  with  the  utmost  pains,  often  in 
his  own  hand,  appears  the  author's  final  comment: 
' '  This  statement  seems  to  be  unfounded  " ;  ' '  this  is  a  mis- 
take ";  and  so  on  in  scores  of  cases. 

Every  man  assuming  to  do  original  work  must  be  his 
own  severest  critic.  Science  deals  in  facts,  and  yet  only 
the  man  of  science  knows  how  hard  it  is  to  state  a  fact, 
how  hard  it  is  to  tell  the  truth.  Perhaps  we  never  see 
the  truth  exactly ;  the  so-called  personal  equation  forbids 
that;  but  to  tell  the  truth  as  we  do  perceive  it  requires 
a  degree  of  self -discipline  that  comes  only,  if  at  all,  after 
years  of  practice  and  self-restraint.  I  am  no  slanderer 
of  my  race  when  I  assert  that  some  men  never  attain  this 


Sigma  Xi  I  255 


power  at  all.  " Shoot  an  arrow  and  speak  the  truth"  is 
said  to  be  an  oriental  proverb.  Telling  the  truth  is  like 
shooting  an  arrow  or  a  rifle;  no  man  does  it  by  nature; 
he  must  learn.  I  have  seen  many  men  shoot,  but  never 
saw  one  hit  the  center  exactly.  If  one  did  so  hit  the 
mark  it  were  surely  an  accident;  not  more  to  be  reck- 
oned to  the  marksman's  credit  than  many  another  shot 
that  came  very  near  but  did  not  quite  reach  the  same 
perfection  of  accuracy.  So  hard  is  it  to  report  a  scien- 
tific truth,  even  for  the  most  accurate  among  us. 

There  is  just  one  other  thing  here  to  say.  The  work 
that  we  undertake  in  this  world  is  determined  largely  by 
circumstances,  often  by  circumstances  over  which  we 
have  little  or  no  control.  Your  work  will  be  found  pre- 
cisely where  you  are.  You  need  not  go  to  Germany  or 
London  to  begin.  You  may  begin  at  Iowa  City  or  at 
Ward's  Corners;  but  wherever  it  is  and  whatever  it  is, 
whatever  its  kind  or  class,  be  assured  the  same  laws  hold 
fast,  the  same  principles  control.  Patience,  self-restraint, 
loyalty  to  the  truth  and  to  the  work  of  others,  these  are 
the  qualifications  for  service  in  the  goodly  fellowship  of 
the  Sigma  Xi. 

Never  was  the  time  more  opportune.  Everywhere  is 
an  open  door.  All  the  work  that  has  been  done  hitherto 
has  been  but  to  clear  the  way  for  you,.  The  work  in 
higher  mathematics  has  been  voluminous,  immense,  but 
there  is  probably  not  a  problem  in  mathematics  but  sug- 
gests others  more  varied  and  far-reaching  still.  In  phys- 
ics and  in  chemistry,  as  all  the  world  knows,  we  are  on 
the  constant  verge  of  expectancy.  In  geology  there  is 
probably  not  a  county  in  the  Mississippi  Valley  whose 


256  On  the  Campus 

history  has  been  so  written  as  not  immediately  to  suggest 
the  necessity  for  revision.  In  the  higher  groups  of 
^plant-life  the  life-history  of  perhaps  five-hundred  is 
more  or  less  definitely  known.  In  the  animal  world  we 
are  only  beginning  to  ask  questions;  even  the  whole 
problem  of  our  relationship  to  the  fauna  at  our  feet  is 
yet  but  dimly  a  matter  of  surmise. 

Nor  is  this  all  for  your  encouragement.  By  private 
beneficence  many  of  the  universities  of  the  country  have 
established  graduate  schools  for  the  express  purpose  of 
fostering  research  and  original  investigation.  Carnegie 's 
great  gift  at  Washington  is  the  most  notable  of  these. 
The  Carnegie  letter  sets  forth  his  purpose,  "which  is  to 
promote  original  research,  paying  particular  attention 
thereto ;  to  discover  the  exceptional  man  in  every  depart- 
ment of  study,  wherever  and  whenever  found,  and  to  en- 
able him  by  financial  aid  to  make  the  work  for  which  he 
seems  especially  designed  his  life-work,  to  secure  for  the 
United  States  of  America  the  leadership  in  the  domain  of 
discovery  and  utilization  of  new  forces  for  the  benefit  of 
mankind. ' ' 

This  sounds  almost  like  an  endowment  of  the  Sigma 
Xi.  Carnegie  means  simply  that  hereafter  no  research 
work  shall  suffer  for  lack  of  means  to  keep  alive  the 
worker.  This  will  certainly  be  a  source  of  wonderful 
help  and  stimulus.  Many  are  no  doubt  turned  aside  even 
to-day  from  research  as  a  career  simply  because  of  the 
uncertainty  of  securing  therein  a  livelihood.  "The  la- 
borer is  worthy  of  his  hire."  Yea,  verily;  but  no  true 
son  of  science  or  of  art  labors  for  his  hire.  Mr.  Darwin 
was  fortunate  in  that  private  fortune  left  him  without 


Sigma  Xi  I  257 


concern ;  Tyndall  and  Priestley  were  poor.  Let  us  hope 
that  Mr.  Carnegie's  money  may  bring  forth  abundant, 
early,  and  continual  fruit.  And  yet  I  venture  the  pre- 
diction that  the  course  of  research  will  be  for  a  long 
time  yet  to  come  a  steep  and  thorny  way  and  not  the 
primrose  path  of  dalliance.  Wealth  so  easily  falls  in  the 
way  of  industry  and  clips  the  wings  of  zeal !  There  is  so 
much  in  this  world  that  money  cannot  buy.  I  believe 
that  rarely  in  this  day,  at  least  in  this  country,  is  re- 
search retarded  by  lack  of  sufficient  means.  The  man 
who  has  the  spirit  in  him  will  find  the  way.  What  we 
need  most  —  and  perhaps  it  is  rather  this  that  Mr.  Car- 
negie intends  to  bring  to  being  —  is  the  right  atmosphere, 
a  generous  atmosphere,  where  an  assembly  of  men  shall 
always  be  found  whose  ideals  are  the  promotion  of 
knowledge  and  nothing  else.  The  Carnegie  Institution 
shall  be  such  a  sodality  of  earnest  men.  High  example 
is  worth  more  than  money  and  I  believe  that  the  bond  of 
sympathy  that  runs  through  such  an  organization  as  the 
Sigma  Xi  is  yet  and  forever  worth  more  for  science  than 
all  the  millions  of  the  generous-minded  Scotchman. 

What  any  individual  may  do  is  to  some  extent  no 
doubt  determined  by  his  opportunity;  nevertheless  it  is 
by  what  is  done  and  not  by  the  opportunity  that  each  at 
last  is  judged.  "What  hath  he  done?"  says  Emerson, 
"is  the  divine  question  that  searches  men  and  pierces 
every  false  reputation.  A  fop  may  sit  in  any  chair  in 
the  world  nor  be  distinguished  for  the  hour  from  Homer 
or  Washington;  but  there  can  never  be  any  doubt  con- 
cerning the  respective  merits  of  human  beings  when  we 
come  together  to  seek  the  truth. ' ' 


SIGMA  XI  II 

The  formalities  which  thus  far  it  has  been  your  privi- 
lege to  witness  have  all  had  more  particular  reference  to 
the  organization  of  which  you  now  become  a  controlling 
part.  You  have  been  told  of  things  past;  of  what  has 
been;  of  things  to  be  kept  in  memory  by  tradition,  or 
record  more  or  less  exact.  You  have  assented  to  these 
things  rather  as  indicative  of  the  general  trend  of  your 
own  ambitions,  your  present  purpose;  and  now  there  re- 
mains to  complete  these  simple  ceremonies  but  one  pro- 
cedure more;  this  for  the  moment  has  been  assigned  to 
me,  and  this  now  touches  the  hope,  the  expectation,  the 
duty  of  each  individual  of  this  class  and  looks  wholly 
to  the  future. 

Research  in  this  modern  world  were  not  scientific,  were 
it  not  methodic;  and,  varied  as  it  may  betimes  appear, 
touching  as  it  does  every  conceivable  phase  of  the  tan- 
gible scheme  of  things,  nevertheless  in  itself  is  compara- 
tively simple  and  presents  perhaps  but  three  aspects, 
finds  employment  in  three  rather  sharply  limited  fields 
of  intellectual  endeavor.  In  the  first  place,  by  dint  of 
the  toil  and  labor  of  the  men  before  us  in  time,  science 
has  become  possessed  of  a  vast  body  of  ascertained  fact, 
facts  in  physics,  in  astronomy,  facts  in  geology  or  bot- 
any; and  it  is  evidently  one  important  business  of  re- 
search to  see  how,  if  possible,  these  facts  may  be  made 
serviceable  in  the  economies  of  everyday  life.  Research 


Sigma  Xi  II  259 


shall  wait  upon  the  physical  needs  and  comforts  of  man ; 
science  shall  be  applied. 

It  is  needless  to  cite  illustration  here ;  accomplishment 
is  everywhere  familiar,  far-shining  as  electric  light,  mu- 
sical as  the  voices  of  distant  friends,  and  far-reaching  as 
the  Hertzian  waves.  Men  who  care  for  wealth  alone, 
for  science  not  at  all,  have  discovered  that  science  pays ; 
and,  with  the  eagerness  of  those  who  seek  for  gain,  such 
men  to-day  demand  research  in  the  solution  of  their 
problems.  It  is  notably  the  business  of  applied  science 
at  this  moment  not  only  to  tell  how  science  has  been  ap- 
plied, but  to  join  hands  with  invention,  to  devise  new 
application  of  discovered  principles;  to  bring  farther 
and  farther  the  energies  of  the  physical  world  into  the 
control  of  enlightened  man. 

But,  wonderful  and  valuable  as  this  is,  and  the  insis- 
tence of  popular  clamor  will  not  allow  us  to  forget  it, 
there  is  behind  all  this  another  field  of  intellectual  dis- 
covery, another  empire  of  research  of  which  the  public 
seldom  hears,  but  without  which  not  only  applied  science 
but  all  science  must  cease  to  be.  This  is  research  for  its 
own  sake ;  research  which  has  for  its  object  the  discovery 
of  fact,  all  apart  from  any  application  which  may  after- 
ward ensue.  Marie  Skolodowska  and  Pierre  Curie  toiled 
for  thirty  years  or  ever  mankind  should  know  of  polo- 
nium and  radium  and  the  shining  world  of  radio-active 
things  that  simply  fascinate  to-day  the  scientific  man. 
That  these  should  cure  tuberculosis  or  lupus,  was  farthest 
from  their  thought;  perhaps  even  to-day  Mme.  la  veuve 
Curie  knows  nothing  of  it. 

When  Leeuwenhoek  with  his  dim  lenses  noted  the 


260  On  the  Campus 

micro-organisms  in  a  drop  of  water  and  strove  to  refute 
the  idea  of  spontaneous  generation,  he  did  not  know  that 
he  was  laying  the  foundation  for  a  science  that  would 
one  day,  as  bacteriology,  overturn  the  accepted  hygiene 
of  the  world.  He  engaged  simply  in  a  bit  of  pure  re- 
search, and  the  outcome  is  as  we  see.  Even  our  fine 
apochromatic  lenses  we  owe  to  men  called  amateurs, 
lovers,  who  sought  to  resolve  the  markings  on  the  walls  of 
minutest  plants,  the  diatoms. 

In  1845  Faraday  dreamed  of  electro-magnetic  waves 
that  filled  the  universe  with  lines  of  force,  as  lines  of 
light;  twenty  years  later  Clerk-Maxwell  reached  the 
same  vision  by  mathematical  equation.  But  in  twenty- 
five  years  more,  Hertz  produced  such  waves  and  showed 
that  these  followed  Faraday's  dream  and  Maxwell's 
demonstration;  outcome  so  beautiful,  so  fine,  that  when 
at  length  in  1907  Marconi's  wires  began  to  signal  across 
the  sea,  scientific  men,  at  least,  noted  it  scarce  at  all ;  but 
the  careless  public  became  excited  once  Faraday's  dream 
came  true  and  his  lines  followed  the  Titanic  on  open  sea 
more  closely  even  than  the  wire-strung  telegraph  follows 
the  flying  train. 

Science  recognizes  Marconi  —  oh,  yes !  —  but  holds  in 
yet  fonder  recollection  Faraday,  Maxwell,  and  Hertz, 
who  had  no  slightest ' '  respect  unto  the  recompense  of  the 
reward";  could  not  even  forecast  it.  Science  not  yet 
applied,  yea  science  that  is  yet  to  be,  lies  in  the  domain 
of  pure  research. 

But  brilliant  as  this  is,  there  is  yet  another  field  in 
which  the  human  mind  may  find  employ,  finer  and  more 
fascinating  far;  I  mean  the  empire  of  pure  thought;  the 


Sigma  Xi  II  261 


realm  of  investigation  which  deals  with  the  relations  of 
things  and  whose  only  possible  practical  outcome  is  in 
the  elaboration  of  instruments,  tools,  by  which  other 
forms  of  research  may  be  more  fortunately  pursued,  as 
when  Maxwell's  mathematics  confirmed  the  inspiration 
of  Faraday,  moving  through  pathless  space  on  lines  of 
inexpressible  complexity,  invisible  and  yet  secure.  Here 
the  mind  is  not  disturbed  by  practical  relation  of  any 
sort  whatever;  its  exercise  is  pure  intellectual  delight. 
At  Atlanta,  in  the  winter  of  1913,  the  president  of  Sec- 
tion "B"  of  the  American  Association  for  the  Advance- 
ment of  Science  declared  that  "Frazier's  series  reveals 
the  transcendence  of  analysis  over  geometric  perception. 
It  signalizes  the  flight  of  the  human  intellect  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  senses."  Applied  science,  pure  science, 
scientific  theory  —  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  one  or  other 
of  these  great  fields  your  privilege  shall  lie.  Sigma  Xi 
in  this  hour  of  your  initiation  makes  of  you  but  two 
demands : 

1.  Appreciation.     She  asks  you  to  appreciate,  to  love 
with  unusual  devotion  the  kind  of  work  to  which  your 
attention  is  thus  so  briefly  called,  and  in  which  you  no 
doubt  have   already   found  some   experience,   however 
slight. 

2.  Participation.     She  asks  you,  in  so  far  as  the  cir- 
cumstances of  coming  years  allow,  to  devote  at  least  part 
of  your  daily  toil  to  some  problem  all  unsolved ;  whether 
in  the  noble  application  of  scientific  fact  to  relief  of  hu- 
man need;  whether  in  the  discovery  of  new  fact,  the 
proclamation  of  truth  unheard;  whether  in  the  more 
lonely  task,  where  only  the  laws  of  mathematical  reason- 


262 


On  the  Campus 


ing  may  control,  but  where  each  new  equation,  each 
latest  integration,  throws  its  own  new  light  upon  the 
world  unseen,  to  make  pathway  by  and  by  for  the  future 
triumph,  since  one  by  one  all  physical  problems  of  our 
world  find  refuge  at  the  last  in  that  energy  and  medium 
unknown,  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  sight  and  touch. 


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